Suburban Youth
by musubi7
Summary: Summer days were meant to be just that, days of barbeque, baseball and all around out-of-school tomfoolery. Of course, when the Braginsky family showed up...things were never quite the same again.
1. Prologue

Once upon a time, in one of America's most diverse states (New York), neither on its busy Wall Street or in its pretentious Upper East Side, but rather on a relatively quiet cul-de-sac in a generic town, lived a boy, his older twin brother (by only two minutes thankyouverymuch), second cousin thrice removed with their family. The Family Williams lived at the end of the cul-de-sac in a tan, Spanish styled home with a Ford SUV and Cadillac in the driveway and piles of useless garbage and priceless artifacts in the garage.

Mr. Williams was an up and coming lawyer, while Mrs. Williams preferred the stay-at-home lifestyle. Their sons enjoyed their life of sports and school (though their youngest tended to focus more on sports, much to Mr. Williams' glee and Mrs. Williams' dismay) and their great-nephew (thrice removed) was more of a homebody. The lad had spent most of his 13 years with his family, the Kirklands, in Bristol and had come to live with his American-Canadian counterparts after an accident involving a drunk driver, fire hydrant and an exceptionally A.D.D. squirrel. The Williams treated the scraggly haired boy as their own son and set the child up with orthodontic procedures and eyebrow waxing within weeks of his arrival. All together, the Williams family was a charming family living on a charming plot of land in a charming slice of upstate New York.

The Williams boys (plus the socially awkward second cousin thrice removed) got along with the other neighborhood boys and girls, which made for good living for pretty much everyone around as there was only the occasional tiff that most parents summed up to boys being boys. No one thought it peculiar that in this slice of suburbia lived, what seemed anyway, a single family (or two) from most European countries, sans a Russian/Slavic family (the Asian countries seemed to be represented as equally on the next block over). For some reason or another, the blocks became known as Hetalia Boulevard. No one was sure where the name came from or its purpose, other than it was short and catchy so it stuck.

Our story—I guess I should break into it soon, or else this will begin reading like an episode of _The Andy Griffith Show_ and while that had an audience fifty years ago, is mindless drivel in today's fast-paced shoot-em-up brouhaha. Unless, of course, you're interested in the finer details of Hetalia Boulevard.

Oh, you are? Well, in that case…

The Weillschmidts, in the center of the street, owned a Mercedes. Their demon of a child, Gilbert, was constantly getting into tiffs with their neighbors' children, Elizaveta Héderváry and Roderich Edelstein. The Italian family was loud and boisterous and had a pasta collection that would put Chef Emril to shame. The old creaky house on the end of the block that had been on sale for years had finally been bought by a bloke crazy enough to risk his fortune, reputation and general welfare. The house was haunted. This was fact and Gospel as declared by the youngest Williams boy, the only one on the block brave enough to touch the doorknob before running away screaming bloody murder like a boy half his age.

Oh well…all right. That's the rather boring parts of the story, then isn't it? I suppose our story _really_ begins on the Williams' sons twelfth birthday. That of course, was the week a Red family moved in, the British second cousin (thrice removed) went missing and summer romances popped out of nowhere like groundhog hills.

* * *

Musubi7's Fried Rice Corner! (conveniently at the end of the passage of ease of reading)

So, what have you stumbled upon, poor reader from afar? Why, _Suburban Youth!_ The charming little humorous AU which sets countries as pre-teenage boys. The premise is light and I'm not quite sure where the story is going, but I do know that I have a terrible habit of not finishing things I start, so this bastard's going to be finished, whether it likes it or not. XD Though generally light hearted, I have some ideas for darker scenes which provide for character development and blah, blah, blah. But most of all, in the end, I hope to create an enjoyable story for you, the fic readers. I also hope that you enjoy this new style of mine. After listening to Yahtzee on Zero Punctuation, I fear his voice has taken over as my muses' and I'm compelled to write the way he speaks now. So, I'm hoping the style remains appropriate for the scenes I have played out (which so far it does, but that's not saying anything since I'm only like...1/2 through the first chapter).

So, let me know what you think and if you have any ideas for scenes you'd like to see played, give me a shout. I can't guaruntee that I'll use it, but feedback's always good. :)

Cheers! ~Musubi7


	2. Sir Isaac Newton Would be Proud

Musubi's Fried Rice Corner

_Thanks again to all who've read and commented! :) I had fun with this chapter, but I admit, it's quite long. So, if you can put up with all these prepubescent boys' antics for that long, hopefully the rest of the fic won't bore you. So far, this is the longset chapter I have planned. Hopefully, I'll be able to update about every Sunday if I can pull it off. I've become rather attached to this fic as I've written it, though I have a feeling some characters are grossly out of character. And for that, I apologize. Please let me know if I've butchered these characters beyond recognition_

_Oh, and the last sentence of last chapter is wrong. Pairings aren't going to be a major focus in this fic. I can't believe that I uploaded the wrong version. My apologies! :(  
_

_So, here's to Chapter 1! :) TLDR: Thank you. It'll be shorter in the future, I promise. Characterization may or may not be slaughtered. Pairings are not emphasized._

* * *

His sons' twelfth birthday party was an affair to remember, well, at least that's what Mr. Williams would say in months and years to come. As per usual, the children's birthday was also the neighborhood Fourth of July block party.

The backyard was rife with party decorations: balloons, crepe paper ribbons (in _manly_ colors like red and blue as demanded by the youngest) and little plastic figurines of the latest anime dub capturing the hearts and minds of millions of American children. The barbeque pit had been fired up earlier in the morning and had been slow cooking pork ribs for the better part of the day. The scent of wood and pork lingered in the air. Music from the latest bands blared from the stereo. The sun was hot, humidity low (surprising for the summer), and the skies blue as youth peppered with a few white dumpling clouds.

Guests began to arrive at 2:30, about thirty minutes _after_ the scribed time on the Pokémon invitations, but whoever showed up to these sorts of events on time anyway?

The adults mingled in the parlor to discuss trivial things such as weed killer and what had happened at latest Summer PTSO meeting. That is until Mrs. Williams took it upon herself to liven things up by passing around Jell-O shots. But that was background noise compared to the delightful yelps of the neighborhood children, now engaged in a Nerf battle of some sort. Knowing the youngest Williams, it was probably a poor reenactment of the Bosnia struggle. Not because he was an extremely well read child for his age, but because his Uncle Jack was a Marine lieutenant and had told his war stories enough times to make the rest of the family sick.

Those too old for Nerf wars, but who still took the opportunity to spring up interesting conversation without alcohol, sat at the party table, dipping their hands in brightly colored bowls of Cheetos and Doritos.

The Williams twins' "alliance" comprised of Francis Bonnefoy, 14, Ludwig Weillschmidt (Gilbert's cousin in town for the summer), 13-and-a-half, Antonio Carriendo, 13, and their "prisoner," the flamboyant Feliks Łukasiewicz, 12 (whom they had to duct-tape his mouth). They had found a hiding place behind the large oak tree in the front yard (there weren't any fences blocking off the front and back yards). The youngest Williams muttered battle tactics that the oldest thought were rather odd, but decided to go with it anyway since his brother was the self-declared battle tactician _and_ story's hero and there was nothing he could do or say about. They split up: Francis darting behind a bush, Antonio and Ludwig under a low-lying juniper brush, and his brother behind the fence separating properties with his neighbors.

Quiet. They had to be very quiet as the approaching enemy would most likely hear anything as a fart from them.

The youngest, in prone, held his position behind the tree, his finger on the barrel, off the trigger—just like Uncle Jack had shown him. Breath…steady now, steady. Wait for it…

The enemy team—Gilbert Weillschmidt, Elizaveta Héderváry, Roderich Edelstein (the three fourteen year olds united temporarily over their mutual desire for this afternoon's victory) and Vash Zwingli (13)—began their approach from the east quadrant of the yard. Their Nerf guns pumped and ready to deliver a face full of squishy…well, Nerf like "bullets."

The youngest Williams wet his drying lips and imagined himself in the heat of Normandy, fighting the Axis like his mother's father Alfred Jones did, whom he'd been named after.

The enemy forces moved in a V formation, Gilbert at the front. Being a military enthusiast himself, he enjoyed these pretend war scenarios as much as Alfred. Strikingly nostalgic to his family's roots from that-country-that-didn't-exist, Gilbert enjoyed high paced, full throttle tactics that could be considered a "blitzkrieg" if any reference to World War I or II Germany didn't make Mrs. Weillschmidt faint.

Alfred had played many times with the neighborhood boys; sometimes as Gilbert's enemy, sometimes as an ally and knew the boy was crafty and smart. Would he barrage through the wide yard in a _not_-blitzkrieg or would he take this slow and steady, knocking each of them dead with a Nerf bullet between the eyes?

Gilbert's arm shot out, halting his team. Alfred's breath hung in his throat. He gripped the Nerf gun tighter.

"Elizaveta, survey," he said in his already-cracked fourteen year old voice. Elizaveta, the Hungarian with chin length brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, gazed the backyard. They were staring straight at the giant oak, fence and shrubs to their left, a slight protrusion from the house to their right. Cocking her eyebrow, she assessed the situation.

Alfred leaned into the tree, trying to hear what she was telling their bleached-haired leader.

Gilbert threw his head back and guffawed.

"Oi! Williams! Is that the best you can do?" he cried. The teenager kept laughing with that confidence draining, sinister laugh. "I thought I taught you better than this, Williams! Where's your spirit?" The remark came as a slap across his cheek, leaving a round purple-blue bruise on his pride.

"You don't know everything I have planned, Weillschmidt," Alfred piped. It was a weak response, but the fact he could speak, despite the growing lump in his throat, deserved a mental pat-on-the-back.

"Well, in that case," Gilbert said with a shrug.

Alfred's heart stopped. Everything seemed to be moving like the Matrix (but he wouldn't know, since he did _not_ "borrow" his father's copy and watch it with his brother one night after everyone had gone to bed).

_"CHARGE!" _ Gilbert bellowed. At the moment Gilbert's team split up to attack Alfred's team. At the moment Alfred's team began firing back. At the moment the backyard became a barrage of "dead bodies" and Nerf bullets. At that very moment—

—the sprinklers turned on.

The neatly trimmed grass immediately turned into a Slip-N-Slide, adding another layer of particular military skill to this epic boss fight. Alfred shot Rod and Eliz in the chest, caught his foot on a loose wad of mud and collided head first into Gilbert's back, both dropping their weapons. The two collapsed in a splash, the buildup of at least an inch of water, cascading on them.

Gilbert struck back by rolling and crushing the younger boy with his weight. Using the bowling-lane slickness of the grass, Alfred easily wiggled from under the teenager's weight. He stood and quite conquistador-like, placed his foot over Gilbert's chest, crossing his arms and smirking for dramatic effect.

Of course, such move was rendered obsolete and rather ridiculous when Gilbert grabbed the child's ankles and gave a rightful _pull_, bringing the 12 year old and all of his 115 pounds to the ground in a slushy _spoosh_. Gilbert rolled, grabbed his Nerf gun, and stood, pointing his gun at Alfred's head, only to find Alfred standing, with his gun, pointed directly at _his_ head.

Both fired. Both killed each other. Both fell back into the grassy swamp with as much theatrics as an opera actor, without the booming music and dreadful foreign singing of course.

Since the fearless leaders of either team had self destructed (_again_) and Mr. Williams had called the kids for ribs, the game was called to a temporary halt. Next round, the oldest twin, Matthew, declared himself leader as Elizaveta declared herself next enemy leader.

The children gathered around the table where the older teenagers (Heracles (16), Sadiq (17) and Gupta whom the kids called "G" (16)) had been, getting them and the precious Cheetos and Doritos sopping wet. Mr. Williams proudly pulled the pork from its slow cooking vessel and slapped the tender bones on each eager child's plate. They returned to their seats, each marked with their own individual sopping wet bum marks.

Since food had become the center of festivities, it would only make sense for the boisterous Italian family, the Vargases, to make their presence known. Their boys, Romano and Feliciano, played the parts of good twin-bad twin extremely well, except for the minute detail that Roman was older than his brother by four years. And of course, it wasn't just Mr. and Mrs. Vargas who came to the party. It was Mr. Vargas, his brother Anthony and wife, his sister Angie and husband, Mrs. Vargas' three brothers: Anthony, Amando and Benito. Each carrying enough food to feed a battalion of the Chinese army.

They greeted the Williamses with a loud "_hey!_", bone-crushing hugs and kisses to both cheeks.

The rest of the neighborhood trailed behind with food and gifts for the birthday boys.

The studious and kindly Lithuanian family of three, the Lorinaitises, attempted to coax their shy, aloof son, Toris (12) to sit with the other kids. Once he made eye contact with his best friend, Feliks, he smiled and joined the group. So long as he wasn't alone, the poor boy had a hard time meeting people. Toris also brought his…well, the Williams twins weren't exactly _sure _how they were related, but he brought the Baltic Bros, as Alfred liked to call them, Raivis and Eduard Von Bock (9 and 10 respectfully).

The mass of Scandinavian folk came next like a string of Law and Order episodes.

Mr. and Mrs. Väinämöinens brought their son, Tino (13), and his puppy along with a box of Salmiakki (a foreign food, both Matthew and Alfred agreed had substances illegal in 49 of the 50 states). They were kindly folk, but dusty-haired Tino often got on Alfred's nerves, as the boy was _so_ effing cheerful all the effing time.

The Oxenstiernas were intimidating Swedish bankers. All three family members shared the same confidence-piercing, stature-diminishing turquoise eyes. It didn't help the already natural intimidation factor, that 14 year old Berwald, their only child, stood a good four inches above everybody and had spent the summer at football camp. He had developed hardened muscles three years before it was thought physiologically possible. (His arms were the size of Matthew's _legs_!) Berwald nodded to his best friend, Tino (how _that_ friendship started was a story both twin wanted to hear), and sat next to him.

The Carlsens were Danish; Mr. Carlsen a vet of the Danish military with a fondness of all things sweet and delicate, was a widower left with two children: a boy who's only similarities with Berwald ended at their age, Jakob, and his little sister, Hannah, about 12.

The Falks, Norwegian, were quiet but also intimidating folk. Their only son, Kris, was only months older than the Williams and wore a funny sailor-looking hat and a barrette. The hat made him appear ten, and the barrette made him look a girl, but the poor lad only wore the items because he was completely devoted to his patriotic mother who found something Norwegian in the garb. He was tagged along by a cousin, whose name was so difficult to pronounce everyone just called him Ice, as the platinum blonde's origins were from Iceland.

The belated boys made their way through the culminating zombie mass of adults to give the birthday boys their gifts. Matthew and Alfred gave their thanks and quickly returned to mauling their ribs. As the crowd around the table grew larger, Alfred took a moment, savoring the ribs his dad had cooked to perfection _again_ and noticed a missing body.

_Vash, Rod, Eliz, Francis, Jakob, TorisFeliks, Baltic Bros, Gil, LudwigFeliciano, barbeque ribs—_

"Yo, Mattie, where's the cuz?" Alfred asked his two-minute older brother on the other end of the table while wiping the back of his wrist over his mouth.

"Haven't seen him in a while," Matthew said, or rather _tried_ to say. He was at that awful stage in life when voices began shrieking before they dropped three octaves. So instead of something coherent like, "I haven't seen him in a while," it came out something like "Haven't" unnecessary pterodactyl cry "in" unnecessary dying pig squeal "while." Which was loosely translated by his brother as the dialogue seen above.

This caused laughter among the children under thirteen years and sympathetic shakings-of-heads from everyone else. The poor older Williams was crimson from chin to hairline.

"I'll go look for him. Make sure he isn't starving and resorting to eating his own food." This snarky comment, as most of Alfred's snarky comments, resulted in stifled giggles from his audience, the few that actually listened to him. He wiped his barbeque plastered hands on his jeans, not caring in his now-twelve year old arrogance, that barbeque sauce tends to stain as its base product is ketchup.

Their backyard was large, the plot about half an acre, but no journey was too large or dangerous for—Alfred Franklin Williams (though one day, he will take his mother's name. Jones sounds much smoother than Williams anyway), hero extraordinaire. Voice to the voiceless. Hope to the hopeless. Brawn to the brawnless and all around awesome guy. He was a Western cowboy in the Wild, Wild Eastern Suburbia and _really_ wished he had a real 10 gallon hat to complete the image.

He set out to look for his socially retarded second cousin (thrice removed) carefully as a crime scene investigator. Looking where he thought no one had looked before, though under a rock was probably unsearched because of its sheer absurdity as a hiding spot. Went through the garage, went through the house with the insanely boring parental figures all enjoying each other's presence now that The Game was on and Jell-O Shots were still passed around.

Up the carpeted stairs to the rooms—vacant. Bathrooms—empty. Closets and the giant multimedia room with bean bags and an N-64 and Playstation and Sega for the old timers and foosball and a mini pool table and mini fridge and—focus, Al. What's missing? Oh yeah, Artie.

_Where is he? _Alfred thought. Supposedly a mission that should have only lasted two minutes began to tread and Alfred began to fret. What if his cousin had done something stupid like run away or something? What if he'd treaded into East Hetalia Boulevard? Which, to no offense to the people who lived there (who were all quite nice and friendly), could be a bit more confusing than West Hetalia Boulevard. The English language seemed to die a horrible curb-stomping death at the street's begin. His dear older cousin, beloved really with his metal encrusted teeth and unmanageable hair and bushy eyebrows, could have wondered further away from Hetalia Boulevard and into town, which would raise some suspicion since the lad was only 13 years old, or would be a perfect reason for the poor kid to be _kidnapped_.

And then who would he make fun of? At least Artie came up with decent comebacks. Mattie would just punch him.

He left the interior of the home and began looking outside again.

"Ar—tie! Ar—tie!" he cried, cupping his hands to the sides of his mouth. "Where _are_ you, you socially awkward British doofus head?"

"I am _not_ socially awkward and don't _call _me that!" came a muffled voice. It sounded like it was high up, like from a room's window or—

"How'd y'get up there, Artie?" Alferd asked his cousin, who was found with his denim clad legs swung over a hefty branch about twenty feet in the air.

"I took an elevator," the Briton said flatly, scowling as always.

"Well, take it down, Brace Face. We got food! And it's almost time for cake and presents!" He added a broad smile.

"Don't _call_ me that. My name, _Yank_, is—"

"Arthur David Charles Kirkland the Third," Alfred said, adding a sweeping bow at the waist. Arthur curled his lip and rolled his eyes. "Wearer of Sweater Vests that would put Carlton to shame. Son of multi-billionaire CEO Arthur David Charles Kirkland the Second of Bristol, United Kingdom." Alfred looked up and cocked his head to the side. Was that sadness he detected in his cousin's green eyes? He gave a cheeky smile regardless. "Would you like me to continue?"

"I'd like you to leave me the bloody hell alone," Arthur said, scowl deepening.

"You can't say that Artie!" Alfred knew very well that bloody was a British swear.

"I'll say whatever I bleeding feel like, so long as no adults are in earshot. Now please, leave me be."

In lieu of somewhat respecting Arthur's request, Alfred simply remained quiet, leaned on the tree's trunk. Cicadas began to buzz and the water from the sprinklers was beginning to up the day's humidity number.

"Why you up there?"

"Why are you still here?" Arthur asked without missing a beat. Alfred could almost _feel_ the contempt beaming down at him.

"Because, Brace Face. My folks are paying for your dental work, so that makes you family. And whether you like it or not, family sticks together and family has fun together."

"I don't know where you got _that_ idea," Arthur said with a scoff.

They were quiet again as Alfred pondered the statement. His family, while not large: only two uncles and an aunt with two cousins, was pleasant and he enjoyed spending time with them. Though Ludwig always looked like he was being _forced_ to have fun with his older cousin, like it was a choice between that or babysitting by a herd of cocaine spiked under-six-year-olds armed with straws and ballpoint pens.

"Why are you still here?" Arthur asked.

"Hey! Al! _Al_!" Matthew called as he trotted his way from the pile of barbeque goodness (his face still stained red where the sauce hadn't wiped out completely). "Did you find Arthur?" His voice calmed down a bit; it no longer sounded like a squeak toy being massacred.

"Yup. He's stuck in the tree." Alfred thumbed to the top branch while Matthew surveyed the tree. He looked at his brother. "Should we get him down?"

"Probably. Need to get him down before Mom starts flipping out," Matthew said. He loved his mother very much, but she could be a bit overwhelming with her affection sometimes. He looked to his twin. "He won't come down on his own?"

"Nope. I'm afraid the sweater vest not only killed the sewing machine, it also killed his adventurous spirit. And his sense of humor."

"Well then, one of us is going to have to get him," Matt said.

"I can _hear_ you! Don't talk about me as if I'm not here!" Arthur called, voice muffled by his altitude.

"Rock, paper, scissors?" Alfred asked.

Matt nodded. "You know it."

The boys presented their clenched fists. They shook them, chanting the ancient decision making incantation. On the last word, Alfred presented scissors. Matt, paper. They heard something shuffling in the background, but paid it no heed.

"Hah! Scissors beats paper. You're going up," Alfred said, victoriously pumping his arm like he'd just won a round of _007 Goldeneye_.

"Best two out of three?" Matt asked, not really wanting to scale the tree. Alfred was about to speak when he was cut off by _it _again. It being that leaf ruffling sound. It being a distinct pause, shoes against bark, a human "oof," leaf rustle, followed by, "Holy _shit_!"

The brothers snapped their attention to the tree. And there he was, Arthur David Charles Kirkland the Third, dangling about fifteen feet from the ground, branch just out of kicking-range. His arms were crossed, keeping his chin above the branch, but nothing else. The sweater vest had been caught in a knot and pulled up, which was most indecent of him. Arthur's diminutive legs kicked the air, trying _so hard_ to reach the branch.

"Tch," Alfred said, watching his flailing cousin. "I could totally reach that."

"Holy…mother (grumble). I'm gonna die."

"_Really_, Al? _Really_?" Matthew's widened eyes began to flash, which was a bad thing. Emotional overload caused him to blink a lot of times in a row before speaking. It was like his brain was only allowing input to come in pieces. The older twin looked again at the flailing Briton. He thought for two moments before dashing away to the garage.

"Jesus Christ, get me off of here!" A gruff sound as he tried to swing his legs on the branch. "I promise—"

"Hey! Don't start your promises yet, Artie! We're gonna get you down!" This was Al.

"This is _your_ fault, you know!" Arthur said as he tried once again to swing his legs on the branch. "And don't call me that!"

"I don't think now is the time to—"

"If you hadn't started talking about getting me down and just let me come down when I wanted—"

"If you hadn't climbed up in the thing—"

"Ugh! I'm slipping." Arthur readjusted his arm's grip on the branch. The branch seemed to sense Arthur's fear of instability and falling, so it began swaying, a water buoy in a hurricane. "Where the hell is Matt?"

"Garage."

The Briton gave a weak, exasperated groan. "I'm going to die."

There was a breeze, which caused the branch to buoy again and his stomach to drop somewhere around his ankles. Was that a snap? Was the branch about to break? Oh, that would have been a _perfect _addition to this afternoon's debacle. Arthur gripped the branch tighter, imagining it to be his cousin's neck. "I'm going to kill you, Al! When I get down there, I'm going to wring your bloody neck!"

"_If_ you get down there." He said it automatically, but regretted his words_ slightly_ when he heard a whimper from his cousin.

Alfred noticed the bobbing escalated its depth of motion. Arthur heard the clinking of branches under stress increase in volume.

"Matt!! The branch is gonna break, where are you?"

Arthur's already faulty grip began to exponentially worsen. He dipped further under the branch, like he was being pulled under stormy waters. His sweater vest clinging to the knot like a child caught in traffic with nothing but a teddy bear to hold.

"Alfred, you—"

Alfred never learned what insult the Briton was about to throw at him, because he'd fallen.

A crack! The four-foot-ten-inched boy tore through the air, victim to gravity and its merciless grip on all objects heavier than a dust speck (and only super nerds who need better lives would point out the physics flaw in that metaphor.)

A rip! And the sweater vest had been carefully partitioned by Mother Nature.

A slip! His foot touched the elusive branch and instead of careening to the ground feet first, his back managed to high five the grass with a sickening _CRUNCH_.

"I've got the ladder! I've got the ladder! Hang on, Arthur!" Matthew said with said ladder in tow. Whence seeing his socially retarded cousin back first in the grass, half the tree branch in an odd angle of broken, and his brother, he quickly assessed the situation as something his brother exacerbated. "Al! What did you do?"

"Me?! I didn't do anything! He fell!"

"Obviously you did something! Did you try to help him? Do I have to remind you about 'Project Juniper'?" Matthew spat, dropping the ladder.

"Hey! I only dropped Ava twice!" Alfred shot back.

"Vash almost _shot_ you! From his house! Three houses down!"

"What's your point?"

"My point is _little brother_," Matthew said, getting into his brother's face, "your rescue plans don't usually work," he poked his fingers in Alfred's chest, "and someone ends up getting hurt!" He pointed to Arthur, who, on cue, emitted a sort of pained moan.

"I didn't do anything, Matt! It's called effing _gravity!_" Alfred pushed his brother away. "And you're only two minutes older than I am. That's not older, that's just luck."

"You still act like you're 10, Al! That makes me older." He moved back into Alfred's space.

"You're just jealous because Dad likes me more." Push.

"He likes that you play _football_ all year. He doesn't like _you_." Push.

"Well…well, at least I stayed in the country. You decided to run away with Uncle Paul to Canada." Push.

"What does _that_ have to do with _any_thing!?" Shove.

"Both of you. Shut. Up," Arthur said from the ground. Slowly he began to lift his torso. Matthew dropped his argument with his sibling and was quickly at his cousin's side.

"Hey, Arthur, don't stand up too quickly. You just fell on your back."

"Thank you, I hadn't noticed," Arthur said gruffly. He waved away Matthew's attempts to help him up and stood by himself. Brushed himself off and only then did he notice the tear in the sweater vest. It looked like a bleeding gash, if blood had suddenly turned into spools of thread. The addition to, or rather, subtraction from the sweater vest, however, had succeeding in the one venue thought impossible: making the vest uglier.

Something of a cold settled in Arthur's chest as he looked at the vest in its mangled, pathetic glory. He'd never been fond of the article, but found himself mourning slightly over its uselessness nonetheless. He peeled it off and glared at his second cousin (thrice removed thank _God_, because if he were any closer in relation to him, Arthur would have to kill himself or the dodgy blonde and somehow it seemed crueler to do the latter if, say, Alfred was his first cousin, not removed.).

As a true English gentleman who stuck to his vows, Arthur rolled his sleeves and clenched his fists with no other intention but beating the preverbal crap out of the American. He charged Alfred, who sensing the raw British anger, charged in the opposite direction. Alfred knew very well not to mess with British folk when they were angry. It was like they were permanently shot up with alcohol and said drunken outbursts were kept hidden unless they were extremely angry or sad giving them superhuman strength. He knew this of course, from the History Channel.

"I'm going to rip your bollocks off, Alfred!" Arthur cried, chasing his cousin into the main backyard, where a Pokémon card game had erupted on the picnic table, enthralling all fanatics, namely, the entire block.

"Mo—_o_—m!" Alfred cried, trying to outrun his second cousin (thrice removed thank_ God_ because at this moment, he was just being a freak because it wasn't even his fault that he'd fallen out of the tree; really, honestly, it wasn't). With an _oomph, _Alfred collided with another individual which made his heart _stop_ in his chest. Any hesitation meant Arthur was closer. And he quite frankly enjoyed the location of his balls and would rather not have them off his body.

"What do we have here?" came Francis' slick voice. "_Un combat entre les membres de famille_?" He clicked his tongue to the roof of his mouth. "Well, we can't have that can we?" Though he was third generation American, Francis still found it completely necessary to speak with a French accent and slip into the language every once and while. Which usually followed a thirty minute dissertation about how his "motherland" was the best in the world, despite their complete lack of a functional army…or class.

Alfred took the moment to dodge behind Francis and let him act as a buffer between the fuming Briton.

"Step aside, frog," Arthur said. "This is between Alfred and me."

"No, no, you can stay here, Frankie," Alfred said to the tall French boy. "He's gonna _kill_ me." He added with a harsh whisper.

Francis turned and patted the American's head in a sort of affectionate way, the same way someone pets a dead dog: slightly lovingly with Hefty sized bags of pity thrown on top. "Aaah, _mon Américain_, you just have to know how to handle the British. It's all very simple. Here, let me show you."

He departed from Alfred's side and instead…well, he didn't really walk as so much as he _glided_ to Arthur, whose anger was swiftly being shifted from Alfred to Francis. Like any respectable British citizen, he despised all that was French, especially _this_ one.

"Get out of my _way_, Francis!" Arthur said. Francis began circling the Briton like a vulture, keeping his blue eyes fixed on Arthur's green eyes. Arthur began circling him as well, the two entwined in some sort of pre-battle dance reminiscent of old sword fights. But without shiny swords.

The sun was hot and as the clock slid around to the four o'clock hour, humidity began to burst in the air like small bubbles of childish hope. The wind died down. The few clouds that had been in the air seemed to have vanished. It was the perfect atmosphere for a fight.

"Kick his ass, Arthur!" cried Gilbert, who'd taken his fixation off the card game long enough to realize the drama unfolding. He laughed and began chanting _fight_. This caused the other kids to leave and encircle the circling boys all chanting along with Gilbert. Except Feliciano, who was in the back, trying desperately to pile through and stop the fighting, as he'd never been one for violence or much else useful things while we're at it. Alfred wasn't quite sure what Francis was talking about "handling" the British, but he took this opportunity to blend into the crowd, keep a low profile. Hopefully he could escape Arthur's—

"Hey, what's going—what the, ALFRED!" Matthew bellowed, returning to the backyard after putting the ladder away.

—and Matthew's wrath.

The neighborhood children continued their chanting, getting faster and faster as the tension mounted.

"Are you going to _do_ anything, Francis? Or are you going to continue to circle me like some sort of perverted molester?" Arthur asked, the both of them coming to a stop.

"Are _you_?" Francis countered. Arthur pinched his lips in a thin line. He could feel his blood stewing in this sun. The arrogant smirk that now graced Francis' face made him want to swing his knuckles into his cheek…and eyes…and everywhere else on his body because Francis was just _so_ bloody _French_ it made him want to puke.

"You and Alfred are so alike. No wonder you two get along."

"Oh,_ L'Angleterre,_ let us begin battle then, like savage dogs_. Dieu fera, je vous battrai comme mes ancêtres auraient aimé faire._"

"Stop speaking French, y'bloody bastard!"

Matthew had caught up to his brother, whipping the younger boy to face him. "Alfred, what the hell did you start now?"

"I didn't do anything! Stop blaming everyone's problems on me!"

"FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!"

It was all noise before it was a punch to the gut. Then it was a resounding _ooh_. And a roundhouse kick to the face. Which was a laugh, a "whoo!" and applause. And a crack. And cheers. Arthur was never one for overdoing it, so he left the French boy knocked out on the grass while the crowd exploded in cheers and claps. Gilbert wanted to reenact the moment and spent some time trying to get Roderich to stand still long enough to try.

"Kids!" came the sing-song voice of Mrs. Williams. The backdoor opened and the tall blonde emerged to the backyard, carrying a white chocolate cake (with raspberry filling) and blue frosting. The top was airbrushed with various colors to imitate fireworks alongside swirly red and blue letters, _Happy 12th Birthday Matthew and Alfred_. Behind her were the rest of the adult guests, to include Mr. Williams with a video camera and Mr. Vargas with a film camera. "Time for cake!"

The neighborhood children immediately flooded the picnic tables, put away their decks and after singing, dug into the delicious, delicious, frozen cake, quickly forgetting the Frenchman and his wounded pride and head.

**Gravity**

grāv'ĭ-tē\, n.; pl. Gravities. [L. gravitas, fr. gravis heavy; cf. F. gravit['e]. See Grave, a., Grief.]

1. The state of having weight; beaviness; as, the gravity of lead.

2. Sobriety of character or demeanor. "Men of gravity and learning." --Shak.

3. Importance, significance, dignity, etc; hence, seriousness; enormity; as, the gravity of an offense.

They derive an importance from . . . the gravity of the place where they were uttered. --Burke.

4. (Physics) The tendency of a mass of matter toward a center of attraction; esp., the tendency of a body toward the center of the earth; terrestrial gravitation.

_To be continued...(with much less words next time, I _promise._)_


	3. Playing Soldiers

Musubi's Fried Rice Corner

_I am so sorry this took so long to write. The part from when Matt and Al go to the garage to the end was rewritten like three times because the scenes wouldn't sit right. But, I managed to get something I'm happy with and I hope you're happy too. I fear that this chapter is just as long, if not longer than last, and I'm afraid it's not as humorous as last chapter. But in the end, I hope you're enjoying this as much as I am. So here's to chapter 2 and you guys!_

* * *

Despite nearly being responsible for two deaths that afternoon, Alfred considerably enjoyed the rest of the day, especially when they opened presents. He received the Lego Movie Set from Jakob and while it was an old product, it was one he'd been longing to have for months. A Lego set designed for those with an eye for film composition. It came with a small computer camera, it's own editing program. Props, actors, dinosaurs, a stunt ramp for a car explosion! Heck, it even came with a little Steven Spielberg! It. Was. Awesome. One of the best part of the afternoon. No, _the _best part! It almost made up for his tearing of Arthur's sweater vest (though the thing _needed_ to be destroyed; it made children smaller than he weep)

Mr. Williams patted his son on the head and had that beam in his eye. That beam that spoke volumes of pride, of glee mutely. "That's my son: movie producer, director, writer, star," Mr. Williams said to the other parents, as if they needed any reassurance that Alfred Franklin was his son, spitting image as he was. Mr. Williams hailed heritage to the Deep South and despite living in Yankee territory for fifteen years, still spoke with the silken word of the Mississippi Delta.

Alfred had to look up to see his father and smiled back, resulting in a hair ruffle. He caught a whiff of his father's cologne: woody, spicy, his _dad_.

As Matthew opened his gift (they'd been opening them sequentially so Mrs. Williams could take pictures and the children could ooh and ahh without being distracted), Alfred looked for his mother in the crowd of smiling parents. He caught her wavy blonde hair tied messily into a ponytail (but still able to look so elegant) at the end of the table. _As far away from Dad as possible_, Alfred noted quickly. Alfred tried to see her left hand, but there were too many people in the way for him to glance without being overly conspicuous. Was she wearing it today?

Matthew had ripped through the red wrapping paper on the long rectangle shaped box from Ice and Kris and was now clawing at the white box as if it had stolen his favorite bottle of imported Canadian syrup (his parents only bought it for him once a year; the stuff was next to _gold_!). Could it be? Oh, he hoped it was! It just _had_ to be, nothing else came in boxes like that. Never mind that _it_ never really came in boxes to begin with. He pulled the last piece of tape off the box and popped the top to reveal a long, skinny, brand _spankin' _new two-pieced carbon fiber-combination hockey stick in red and white with a maple leaf pattern in the grip! And it was made by _Carbon4_ the best hockey stick company in the world based in Toronto oh man this was the best birthday _ever_!

He could hardly keep himself together as he squawked out a _thank you_. Which, of course, resulted in a good number of chuckles from the adults and Matthew to turn a ferocious shade of pink. He hated that his voice was changing so early. It caused so much unnecessary attention to turn to _him _at one time. Matthew wasn't like his little brother; he didn't like mass amounts of attention (though he would appreciate it if once and a while teachers wouldn't confuse him for Alfred). He could only imagine what the girls in his class (especially Mindi Thompson, the pretty redhead who sat behind him all last year) would say when school resumed in August, assuming his voice hadn't plunged to a baritone and what a nightmare _that _would be. To be the only kid in his class with a voice so deep…

It was then, at the moment he thought of Mindi Thompson and her opinion of his sudden dropped voice, that Matthew noticed the distance between his mother and father: his father standing behind Alfred, the favorite; his mother somewhere in the crowd by the Vargases, a distance of at least twenty feet. It dampened his spirits, a lot more than he was willing to admit to anyone, even himself, though he could have sworn that after last year's Fourth of July fiasco, that they'd be better this year. He returned his attention to the hockey stick, the party, the moment. It _was_ a Carbon4 two pieced carbon fiber hockey stick after all.

As the boys opened their gifts, they found the contents to be as varied as the individuals who gave them. Some were practical, like Ludwig's books on proper etiquette which he reassured either twin was _not _a slant against them at all. He just felt that everyone should have these sorts of books in their personal library since one never knew what kind of engagements would come up in the future.

The boys weren't sure if they should consider Roderich's gift practical or completely useless. He'd given them piano music, despite knowing that neither of them played and Alfred certainly had no intention of (or attention span conducive for) actually learning.

"If you'd just let me teach you," Rod said, like he had so many times, noticing the twins' strained grimaces, trying to hide their obvious distaste of the gift. "Listen to the greats and I promise you'll want to play like they do."

They gave him the answer they always gave him, "Maybe next week."

Other gifts were dangerous, like Tino's salmiakki and Vash's Air Soft guns both in the shape of AK-47s. Mrs. Williams gave her sons _that look_ which immediately spoke, "If I ever see you playing with those, so help me God, you'll be grounded until your teeth rot out of your head."

One gift, in particular, Gilbert's, was a lewd piece of paraphernalia purchased from Spencer's. As soon as Alfred and Matthew opened the gifts, Mrs. Weillschmidt was so embarrassed by her son's _audacity _that she, and rightfully so, took her son away from the party and thoroughly beat the polite back into him. The party's chitter had been cut, sliced cleanly with a katana, as everyone listened to Mrs. Weillschmidt's screaming.

"Don't—you—_EVER_—disrespect me like that again, do you understand me, Gilbert Weillschmidt?" Where there were pauses, there were _smacks_ of bare palms against bare faces. When the Germans returned, Gilbert was alive, albeit pinked, teary eyed and ego thoroughly obliterated.

By the time it was 5:30, 6:00, the boy's twelfth birthday had gone significantly better than last year's. Nothing was broken, nothing was stolen, no houses set aflame, no one filed for lawsuit.

Because it was what he did, avoid human contact for as long as he could (he was anti-social, not socially awkward as his stupid second cousin often confused) and once presents had been opened and cake had been eaten, Arthur skirted inside. He sat on the stairs and watched the neighborhood kids bunch together: talking, shouting, pointing, laughing and back-slapping. Whatever childish game they were about to embark on, he didn't care. It was quieter in the house, despite the parental chatter (which, if he listened hard enough he could probably _learn _a thing or two, unlike the drivel of twelve year olds). Sitting on the top stair, out of sight and out of mind, Arthur slipped into his happy place, a quiet place without younger cousins claiming to be heroes, without violence or obscure American TV show references. A place where he could just unwind, relax in the air conditioned cool.

"Artie! Artie! Come outside!" _Slam_. Alfred tore through the house like a twitching cockroach on a variety of speed drugs. Arthur slumped into the shadows, hoping his belligerent second cousin wouldn't find him. He'd already lost a sweater vest. He was down to jeans, Converse and a button-up short-sleeved shirt. He didn't have much extra clothing to lose without being lewd.

_Where'd he go?_ Alfred thought as he weaved through the adults, their Jell-O shots and mindless "adult talk." Really, who had the stomach for discussions of "economy class syndrome" whatever the heck that was? He could have sworn he saw his dirty-blonde cousin duck somewhere in the house. _Silly British kid, _Alfred thought. _Sneaking's for Americans._

He charged up the stairs. Maybe his cousin would be—

"A-ha! Found you!" Alfred said. There, at the top of the stairs was his cousin, curled up and pressing his body as far into the shadows as physically possible.

"What do you want?" Arthur asked, with an exasperated sigh.

"We're doing World War II reenactments. We need a Britain. Come on!" Alfred hadn't waited for his cousin's reply, instead grabbing Arthur's wrist, and giving him a rightful _pull_ to his feet. He was halfway down the stairs, not paying attention to Arthur's grumbles as per usual.

"Wait, wait, wait, Al," Arthur said, yanking his arm out of Alfred's grip. "What do you mean you need a Briton? You don't really need to specify ethnicities and nationalities. You just need a team of Allies and a team of Axis players, yes?"

"Well," Alfred started. His face scrunched in concentration, like he was searching for the words to describe a Nirvana concert at the Grand Canyon to Helen Keller. "On Hetalia Boulevard, we don't really play like that."

"What do you mean?" Arthur asked with a perked eyebrow. "How _else_ would you play?"

"We play by country. Like, I play America. Since Matt spent some time in Canada, he's played Canada ever since. Tino's Finland, Baltic Bros are…well, the Baltic States. Elizaveta is Hungary. Gil is…I can't remember what country he is, but it doesn't exist anymore, I know that."

"And you play this _all _the time?"

"Well, sometimes we do other wars. But, today we're doing World War II 'cause everyone's here. Come on, Artie, it'll be fun." Alfred gave his signature, straight, white toothed smile. Arthur ran his tongue angrily over the metal bumps desperately trying to push his teeth into submission. Damn Al and his dental perfection.

Arthur hated to admit it, but his interest _was_ piqued. He wasn't so much a military tactician like Alfred, coming up with new and possibly more dangerous ways to defeat the enemy, as he was fascinated with history, in particular, the Second World War era. He'd read as much as his thirteen mind could understand, which was a good chunk of his father's library.

"So, I suppose you'll be sitting out for the majority of this round then," Arthur said as-a-matter-of-factly. Alfred's grin exploded off his face.

"Peh, no way," he said. He thumbed his chest. "America always comes to save the day."

"I'd beg to differ," Arthur said with a slight lip curl. "Well, anyway, what year are we looking at then?" He clapped his hands and rubbed them together, trying to reduce his excitement to a cool, suave exterior. He didn't want to show his cousin that he was actually interested in something _Alfred_ had come up with. That would simply signal the apocalypse and the Briton didn't have a death wish for the entire world.

"Umm…" Alfred said, twisting his face in concentration again. "I can't remember. But since me and Matt are playing the States and Canada, it's gotta be sometime after 1941."

"You don't have a bloody clue, do you?" Arthur asked, cocking an eyebrow. "Brilliant. You can't do a reenactment without dates."

_Of course_, Arthur was going to be a brat about the game. _Of course_ he was going to demand perfection at every turn. _Of course_ he wasn't going to let children do what they're good at, running around and not caring. "We're not looking for historical accuracy, _Artie_," The area around Arthur's left eye twitched. "Just giving people countries to play and we shoot at each other and at the end, we beat up Gil and Ludwig because they lost."

Alfred began rattling the game's finer points and highlights from past victories like an ESPN anchor, but Arthur wasn't paying attention. He scanned the backyard and categorized Hetalia Boulevard's children into the countries they would represent. Some made sense, others did not. For instance, Ludwig Weillschmidt made absolute sense to play Germany, not only for his heritage, but by attitude as well. If the boy slicked back his hair, he could pass a very stereotypical SS officer. Then there was Feliks who _was_ Polish, and could probably pull off the part, but as soon as he opened his mouth, all bets were off. The kid was originally from Southern California, and unfortunately, carried the accent with him though, Arthur often mused, he'd picked up on the wrong gender's speech patterns.

"Then we'll move to something else, capture the flag maybe. I don't know. Why do you have to screw everything up with your… _Britishness_ anyway?"

Arthur snapped his attention back to Alfred. His ears prickled, turning a lovely shade of red.

"If by 'Britishness' you mean sticking to historical accuracy, then it's because I value keeping the integrity of—"

Alfred held up his palm, cutting Arthur's building rant to a sudden and complete halt. "Stop. Your nerd is showing."

"My _what_?" Arthur's cheeks pinked and he had the sudden urge to duck behind something large and readjust his appearances.

"Your nerd," Alfred said again flatly, as if it was the more obvious than Francis' arrogance, or Feliciano's uselessness. "Your nerdishness. Your I-read-too-many-books-and-know-words-college-kids-don't-know-ness. Your Inner Carlton." He tossed in that name again, making Arthur fume. Since he'd been dropped so unceremoniously on the Williams' porch four months ago, Alfred had always used that term, one's Inner Carlton. Being a Briton, a rich Briton at that, Arthur of course had no idea who he was talking about and was often left wondering if the term was one of endearment or simple insult. Arthur rested on the latter, but made a mental note to investigate who this "Carlton Banks" to avoid further embarrassment.

"Hey Al! Did you get the United Kingdom yet?" Gilbert asked from the door. His Nerf gun was draped over his shoulders. The rest of the "Axis Powers" were outside, on the picnic bench, adjusting their gear, putting on bike helmets to resemble Kevlar and applying camouflage paint. Even though he was the youngest in the group at eight, Feliciano was in charge of the paint. At that moment, he was busy compiling the right mix of browns, greens and dark greens to Jakob's face, though Jakob just wanted the standard two black bars under his eyes.

"Yeah! He's coming," Alfred shouted back. He turned back to his cousin. "Please? For me?" He stuck out his bottom lip, wibbled it a bit, and looked at his cousin with those God awful puppy dog eyes. Alfred knew it was one of his strong points, looking so young at his age. He could usually get his babysitters to do whatever he wanted to just because he looked cute. He wondered if he'd get the same result with the heartless cousin.

Alfred could see his cousin crumbling and trying hard not to show it. He kept his arms crossed and his nose in the air. So, to up his game, Alfred added whimpering noises which dropped his cuteness from one year old learning to walk to stray puppy in a storm. "Please?" he asked.

Arthur grumbled and shoved his ridiculous cousin out of his way and walked toward Gilbert.

"If we're going to play, I'm England, not the bloody United Kingdom," Arthur spat, poking Gilbert in his chest with two fingers, "I could care less about Scotland and Northern Ireland."

"Fine by me," Gilbert said. "Your side is over there." Gilbert pointed to the other end of the backyard, where a large group of kids had congregated; each with a look of slight irritancy. Arthur wondered how long they'd been waiting for an England.

Alfred jumped and whooped and dashed back, meeting up with Matthew, Toris, Feliks, Berwald, Romano, Vash and the Baltic Bros. Even the older kids decided to play this reenactment. Heracles, Sadiq and G were busy moving the picnic tables to either side and setting them down, table tops facing each other; a sort of lazy man's trenches.

"Rom_a_no, why aren't you on our side?" Feliciano whined across the backyard. He'd managed to climb on Ludwig's back and was waving his hands madly. "_Famiglia_ sticks together, remember?"

"Shut your face and eat your stupid linguini, Veneziano," Romano shot back. "This is for breaking my CD two weeks ago!"

"But I said I was _so_rry!" Feliciano whined, wiggling and falling off of Ludwig's back.

Gilbert was in the background tying Francis, Tino, and Heracles after he'd moved the benches, to the spindly cherry tree in the corner. His face scrunched in concentration as he tried to remember off the top of his head who exactly his family's country had invaded 60 years ago. The bickering from the Italian brothers was not helping as he couldn't remember if he needed to tie Jakob up, or just let him roam. Though, the youngster _had_ had orange soda; in a few moments, he'd jerking around like a two-bit crack whore off her stash for a weeks, so maybe tying him up would be a good thing anyway.

"Both of you shut _up_," Gilbert said sharply, instantly silencing Feliciano; Romano gave a _puh_ sound and leaned on the back fence. "We still have to split up everyone and I can't concentrate with your yappin'." He gave the knot a final tug, making sure the three "nations" were secure and looked to his friend. "Al! Who do you have on your side?"

"We've got me, Canada, Unit—England, _England_ sorry! Jeez, you don't have t'hit me! Australia played by Romano, the Baltics, China by Berwald, Poland—"

"If anyone gets Poland, it should be us," Ludwig piped. Hearing Ludwig speak was about as rare as Arthur actually giving a damn about something. Every time he spoke, conversations would halt and people would just stare at him. His speech usually so spread apart, that people forgot what he sounded like and were always thrown back by how deep his voice was for his stature and height.

"But, like, Toris is over here," Feliks-playing-Poland said, giving Toris-playing-Lithuania's arm a playful punch. "I don't want to go to your side."

"But Poland was invaded by Germany," Ludwig said.

The boys of the Allied and Axis teams did their best to stifle their laughter, making the back of Ludwig's neck prickle with heat. Elizaveta-playing-Hungary rolled her eyes and smacked Gilbert on the back of his head.

"You know, since, like, we represent these countries…that like, sounds totally gross," Feliks said with a wrist flick.

"It makes sense. Now come over here," Elizaveta said tapping her foot impatiently.

"Fine! You don't get to use my flat iron," Feliks said as he stuck his tongue out and sauntered to the Axis side. He was immediately greeted with a fist-tap from Jakob and given a Nerf gun byGilbert.

"Who's playing the Soviet Union?" Arthur-playing-_England_ asked Alfred, "If we have the Baltic area?"

It was as if Arthur had accidently launched a nuclear warhead. The neighborhood boys groaned and Matthew threw down his gun.

"Great. We might as well not even play," he said.

"What? What did I say?" Arthur asked, poorly waxed eyebrows pinched together. Alfred sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"We usually get into long arguments trying to find a Soviet Union to play. Every time we've tried to play, we try to find a USSR, and it always fails because _somebody_ always has a problem playing commies. Watch this." Alfred turned his attention from his cousin to the older neighborhood boys. "Hey, Kris, wanna play Russia?"

"Don't see why I have to," Kris said with a shrug and with as much passion as a pineapple in Alaska," I'm already Norway."

"Ice?"

"I'm Iceland, Al. Sorry."

"Berwald?"

"'M already Ch'na. Y'gave me th'spot yerself," Berwald grumbled. It wasn't really fair to say that Berwald "said" anything. His voice was so entrenched in baritone that everything he uttered simply came out in gruff syllables. Some said it was a speech impediment. Others said he had rubber banded braces. Others said he was just that _weird_. But neither Williams twin could confirm nor deny anything; they hadn't been brave enough to check the hulk's teeth for rubber bands or ask him to say several phrases which would indicate an impediment.

"Come on guys, we need a Soviet State to play right," Alfred said, trying to gain control of his peers again. "Hey, Toris, how bout—"

"No. And don't bother asking Raivis and Ed. They've been listening to Nana's stories of the Old Country since they were kids and you'd think they actually _lived_ through the horrors of the Soviet Union."

At the mere _mention_ of the Soviet Union, Raivis ducked behind his older brother.

"So they're not big fans of the Soviets either then?" Alfred asked and Toris shook his head no. Alfred sighed, wanting to bang his head on the fence or cement out of frustration.

"See, Arthur? This is why we try _not_ to bring up the Soviets," Alfred said. He sighed again. "We could have this argument for hours."

"Hey Allies! You figure out a Russia yet? Come on, my hair's turning white," Gilbert-playing-Prussia asked with an impatient huff across the yard.

"Your hair's already white anyway, Gil," Alfred retorted. "That's what you get for bleaching it so many times."

"Hey! I like the color. It makes me look _dangerous_," he said with a devilish grin and wiggling his fingers. "And Eliz likes it, don'cha, sweetheart?" He wrapped his arm over her shoulders; before he could finish the movement, she'd already pushed him off.

"Shove it, Chicken Man. You look like an albino," Elizaveta shot back. Her face contorted to make it very _clear_ that she was not anyone's sweetheart, especially Gilbert's.

"I love you too, babe!" Gilbert gave her an air kiss.

"Do you guys have a Japan?" Alfred asked.

"Yup, Antonio's playin' him," Gilbert said. "The Asians are invading California Yao and Kiku won't be back until close to school starting."

"We ready to play yet?" Matthew asked. "The sun's gonna be down before we've even _done_ anything." He paused, sautéing a thought for a moment. "We can play _without_ a Soviet Union."

You would have thought Matthew killed Arthur and Ludwig's beloved pet with the horrified looks on their faces at the mere _implication_ that something could be done with slight historical alterations.

"That'd be historically inaccurate, though!" Arthur and Ludwig said in unison.

"The Russians were a vital part of the Allied front," Arthur said slapping the back of his right hand into his left palm. "Without them, the cause would have surely been lost and the Axis might have…" Arthur descended rapidly into his historical lesson, with a few quips from Ludwig thrown in for good measure. Arthur would often recognize said statements with a polite _thank you, I hadn't thought of that_ or, _wow, Ludwig, that's fascinating. How did you _know_ that?"_

"Oh look, you started it," Alfred deadpanned to Matthew.

"Does he ever stop?" Matthew asked. Arthur had now fully fallen into story-telling mode and was enacting the Pacific Wars with flailing arms and different tones for different world leaders. Apparently he wasn't paying attention to his audience, because if he were, the Briton would have realized the boys were losing consciousness like ants sprayed with Raid.

Matthew was the first to speak, cutting the narrative off at the hip.

"Thank you Professor," Matthew said, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Look, seriously, we should just start playing. It's 6:30, the sun'll be down by 9:30 and by the time we figure out a Soviet Union, Gilbert's roots will have grown back."

"Never gonna happen, Williams!" Gilbert shouted.

"Do you even _remember_ what your real hair looks like?"

Gilbert's face contorted in thought. He gave a _hmm_ sound, as if were honestly trying to remember the color of hair he was born with. After a moment, "No. And quite frankly I don't care."

"I'll play," came a strange, accented, male voice. The voice wasn't like Francis', an American trying hard to grasp to roots he almost had no ties to. But instead, resembled Arthur's, the voice of someone who'd _just_ stepped off the airplane and hadn't developed the _proper _way of speaking yet. Actually, scratch that. The voice was neither, because it was the voice of someone who'd just stepped off the airplane and hadn't been speaking _English_ for longer than three years at the most.

The voice belonged to a young boy none of the neighborhood kids knew. He looked about twelve with a tall, lanky body, but his face hadn't lost its youthful fullness. His hair the color of beach sand and his eyes an odd shade of blue, close to purple. He wore a white and red stripped t-shirt, denim jeans, Nikes that looked like they'd been stolen from the set of the _Fresh Prince_, a jovial smile and a _scarf_.

He stood in beteween two girls. The one to his left looked older, maybe 13 years. She had cropped yellow hair, held back with a black band. Her eyes, wide and cobalt. She wore overalls. The second girl, she couldn't have been a day over seven, wore a pink party dress, pink shoes and ash blonde hair held back by a pink bow. She clung to the boy in the middle and stared blankly at the neighborhood children; her eyes the color of icicle puddles. Overall Girl and Scarf Boy had enough similarities to be called siblings, but Pink Girl shared none. The three of them stood in front of Mrs. Williams.

"Kids, these are the Braginski siblings: Ivan, Ekaterina and Natasha, did I pronounce those right? They're new to the neighborhood from St. Petersburg was it? Yes, St. Petersburg, all the way in the _Russian Federation_, isn't that _fascinating_ you guys?"

Mrs. Williams' enthusiasm was _not_ shared by the neighborhood children, to say the least. In fact, their reaction would have better suited the welcome of a horde of an intelligent beetle species wielding ancient Germanic weaponry and modern vehicles from Japan. A breeze kicked in, ruffling the children's clothes and hair. Leaves rustled in the background, a quiet _hush_ amongst the chilling scream of distrust.

Raivis was a nervous wreck when the Soviet Union was simply spoken of. Now, there were three citizens from that country. Here. In America. In the Williams' backyard! The nine year old felt the prickling of tears as he clung to Ed and Toris.

Gilbert's jaw pressed together and his hand gripped around the hilt of his gun tighter. Ludwig backed to his cousin.

Berwald's already intimidating eyes flickered and darkened. Even Sadiq, the oldest and quite possibly the most mature, pinched his lips together, white.

Alfred automatically felt that desire to _protect_ everyone in the yard.

He was the first to step forward.

"I'm Al," Alfred said, extending his arm to the siblings, trying to soften his expression; it was a diplomatic and mature move, which surprised Arthur, Matthew and a good number of the rest of the neighborhood. Ivan shook his hand.

"Hello," Ivan said. He said the "he" part from his throat, making the word, the familiar English greeting, sound odd, foreign. Alfred shook the hand of the girl in overalls, Ekaterina, and the young one in the party dress, Natasha.

"You kids play nice, ok?" Mrs. Williams said to everybody, though the statement was obviously directed specifically towards her youngest and Gilbert. Gilbert quickly nodded yes, having already received the backhand of his angry mother once today, not wanting a repeat of the event. She turned and retreated to the house, but not before both Alfred and Matthew noticed she wasn't wearing her wedding band.

"Looks like we've got a Soviet, eh?" Matthew said, slipping involuntarily into the Canadian accent he picked up last year. Alfred quickly silenced him with a Nerf bullet to the head. He turned back to the newcomers.

"So, you guys got Nerf guns?" Alfred asked, he jerked his chin out on _you guys_ and looked at them over his nose. He relished the moment, wondering if this slight sense of empowerment was what Arthur felt every day.

"We hoped that you had…more," Ivan said, sheepishly, truthfully, a blush reaching the tips of his ears. His w's came out like v's, his t-hs like d-y's and words he didn't know, awkward and jilted. "We weren't allowed Nerf guns back home."

"I think we have a few in the garage from two years ago," Matthew piped. "Al, _why don't you help me_?" he spoke the last part with a fake smile , through his teeth and jerked his head towards the garage, in a pitiful attempt to be discrete.

Alfred didn't question the blatant lack of tact, instead trotted to his brother who practically speed-walked to the garage. His brother's eyes were flashing again. This couldn't be a good sign. Matthew punched in the code for the automatic garage door. With a _ping _and a whir, it opened.

The garage, well, it really wasn't a garage, a room that was _supposed _to house cars, as much as it was a place that had thrown up boxes of _stuff. _There really was no better word for the piles of boxes and random trinkets which decorated the area. There was a couch, an ugly artifact from Mr. Williams' college years, placed in the front, a table, a hula girl light. Boxes with dust. Some without. Some with names Sharpied into the side. Others without. Boxes stacked against each other like some sort of three-dimensional wallpaper. Sports paraphernalia on the opposite wall. Rollerblades, baseball gloves, football helmets, soccer cleats, ice skates. A small path parted the Red Sea of _Stuff_, and it could barely be called a path as bits of debris from the box pillars had settled on the ground.

Matthew actually began looking for the guns while Alfred leaned on the table. A silence swept over them, not the kind of silence of two people who actually had nothing to talk about, but that awkward and lingering silence, thick like the body odor of Bret Farve after practice, of two children who _refused_ to talk about something they needed to.

"So, new kids," Alfred said, just barely penetrating the silence. Matthew, entrenched in the shadows of Under the Table (a place bordered with more boxes, a chest-of-drawers, and the Ugly Couch, making it a musty fort configuration.) Matthew gave a noncommittal grunt. He shifted some boxes, moved out a baseball bag, from their days before football and hockey. "They're Russian. Guess we're gonna have to lock our stuff up at night."

Matthew shifted another box. "They're not the commies anymore, Al," he said. With a clink, he put the found, albeit dusty and dirty, Nerf guns on the table. "Mom said the Cold War ended right around the time we were two." He began to move to get out from Under the Table and hit his head with a deep _thump_ and an _ow_.

"I know, but still. They have bad juju. They can't be any good."

Matthew leaned on the back of the couch and cleaned his glasses lenses. He looked tired, a little crestfallen and Alfred was positive it wasn't because of the new kids and their heritage.

"Looks like they moved in the house at the end of the block," Matthew said.

"Pfft," Alfred waved his brother's comment like he would an irritating insect. "None of the houses on the block are for sale."

"Yes there are. Old Man Johnson's house." Alfred sampled the implication in his mind, let it swim around between his ears like a tadpole. Someone living in Old Man Johnson's house? Impossible.

"Matt, don't even joke about that. Three people _died_ in that house. It's cursed. No one lives there anymore."

"Check it out, Al," Matthew pointed and Alfred turned. Lo and behold, Old Man Johnson's house, the creepy brick house from the 1930s with a porch and overgrown weeds and decaying shutters and paint—had a small Toyota sedan and mover's truck in the driveway. Two men moved a couch inside the home.

Alfred couldn't describe the moment any better than simply saying it was like being punched in the gut. Someone was living in Old Man Johnson's house! The spirit of the cranky geezer of Hetalia Boulevard's folklore was sure to have been unleashed with the disturbance! He didn't want to die, not while he was so young and still had so much to do! And the New Kids—they were either working with the evil spirit or they'd be dead by Friday. Either way, it would be best not to get too close to the Braginskis.

"Matt?" Alfred asked, still staring at the wilting house being filled with strange people from a strange land, voice just barely above a whisper.

"Yeah, Al?"

"Are we…are we going to die?"

Matthew wasted no time in slapping the back of his little brother's head.

"Hey, Mattie?" Alfred asked, nursing the injured spot on his head. Matthew climbed over the Ugly Couch and handed Alfred one of the old Nerf guns. "You saw Mom's—"

"Come on, shrimp, let's go back," Matthew interjected, throwing his arm around his brother's shoulders.

"Who're you calling _shrimp_? I'm an inch and a half taller than you."

***

"So, you see, Ivan, it's a fairly simple game," Arthur said, explaining the Hetalia Boulevard War Game to the new comer. The boy readjusted the beige scarf tied tight against his neck; so tight, that Arthur couldn't see the contours of the boy's neck. He thought the boy daft, since it was close to 79 degrees and even the thought of _trousers_ was enough to make him sweat. He was silenced before he could get the question out.

"_Ee-_van," Ivan corrected. Arthur's eyebrows furrowed, a little irritated that the Russian boy wouldn't let the slight pronunciation difference go. It wasn't like _he _harped on Alfred or Matthew for pronouncing _aluminium_ incorrectly. Simply by being in America, he knew that things were said differently here. Ivan would be wise to learn this lesson as quickly as possible.

"Anyway, you will represent the USSR. And your sisters may represent it as well, if they would like to play?" He turned to the girls, who had been standing on the cement portion of the backyard, and smiled without exposing his metal-encrusted teeth. _Try to be welcoming,_ he thought. _They're kids just like yourself. _Ekaterina nodded.

"Katya, she, would play Ukraine then, yes?" Ivan asked; Arthur nodded. Since they had the Baltic States, it wouldn't hurt, he supposed. "And Natasha…she too small, but if she were…bigger, yes, she would play Belorussia."

"How does _that_ work, exactly?" Elizaveta asked, perking an eyebrow.

"Oh…well, umm…" while Ivan searched for the words he didn't know, Ekaterina spoke for him.

"Ivan and I are half siblings," her voice was smoother with English, someone who knew the language and had been studying it for far longer than Ivan had, though still pleasantly accented. "We share the same father, but his mother is Russian, mine is Ukrainian, and Natasha," she raked her fingers through her sister's hair, "is our step-sister with family in Belarus. Ivan it's _Belarus _not Belorussia in English."

"I see," Arthur replied dry as a California summer.

"Three orders of Nerf guns, _comin'_ up!" Alfred said, returning with his brother, baring his usual overly happy grin. Any hostility he seemed to have towards the Russian siblings had dissipated, though knowing his cousin, that was probably far from the truth. Alfred wasn't one to just _let go _of grudges, no matter how poorly the foundation they were based upon.

"Who's ready to do this?" Matthew asked with a grin, handing the weapons to Ivan and Natasha. The little girl refused the gun by crossing her arms, shaking her head and pouting like a child much younger than she looked. Matthew was taken aback by her aggression and attitude. He was about to say something about it, when Ekaterina's hand touched his arm.

"I am sorry for my sister's behavior," she said, "but she is just a child and has not learned English beyond simple greetings. You can understand, of course?"

For a moment, Matthew forgot all of what he was going to say simply _stared _at the short-haired girl. There was nothing remarkably pretty about her appearance. She was a bit pale, maybe too thin for her height, plain dressed and even plainer spoken.

"O—of course," he thought he said. What came out was the screech of an animal caught in an electric fence. His whole body tensed and sweat ran down his back. His ears didn't tingle, neither did his face; his whole body, scalp to baby toenail was the same color of a Coke can and prickled like he'd been tazered.

And she laughed. Oh, God, she _laughed_! (And so did everyone else) But hers was a subdued sort of laugh, somewhere between a chuckle and a sigh. Subtle, not guffawing like his little brother and his cronies.

"Thank you," she said. She turned to her sister and whispered something in hurried Russian. The little girl dashed inside.

"Where's she going?" Matthew asked.

"Inside. The younger girls are playing in the guest bedroom."

"Oh. Well…um," his mind had suddenly fled its usual residence in his skull to a place far, far away from here and now. He rubbed the back of his neck, trying desperately to find the words to the question he wanted to ask her. "Since Ukraine was part of the Soviet Union, you can be on my team…if…you, uh, um…want."

She chuckled again, but this time he didn't feel like jumping off a cliff.

"Oi! Williams Number One with the Crush!" Gilbert's crash voice knocked him back to reality quite painfully. "Pay attention! We've only got a few hours of sunlight left."

Matthew shot back a twelve year old version of a swear (he couldn't bring himself to actually say the words). Katya slung her Nerf gun over her torso and followed Matthew behind the upturned picnic table.

"Finally, _God_!" Gilbert said exasperated. "Hey, Frenchie, how you holding up?" Francis responded with a string of French words, only assumed to be angry swears. "Excellent," Gilbert charged his Nerf gun. "Let's play boys!"

* * *

**Awkward**

(ôk'wərd) adj.

Not graceful; ungainly.Not dexterous; clumsy.Marked by or causing embarrassment or discomfort: _an awkward remark; an awkward silence._Requiring great tact, ingenuity, skill, and discretion: _An awkward situation arose during the peace talks._Difficult to handle or manage: _an awkward bundle to carry._


	4. Uno

Musubi's Fried Rice Corner

_I'm so sorry that this chapter took so long to get up. I haven't had the greatest week ever and I couldn't think of anything for the kiddies to do to jump start the scene. I apologize for the middle and hope it doesn't deter readers. We're starting to get into the plot now. So, enjoy! :)_

* * *

The sun had cannon-balled into the horizon, splashing the evening sky a deep lilac, fit for a Renoir painting—which Francis found upon himself to remind everyone every two minutes. He did this until Arthur, the bitter British second cousin of the Williams twins (thrice removed), reminded him of a rather unpleasant ankle-to-face, therefore shutting the blonde up for the rest of the night. Christmas light lightning bugs began to flicker on and off, humming between blades of grass. Once the picnic tables had been moved to their original location, the energy of the children seemed to plummet to levels more respectable for retarded snails. Some sat on the grass, watching the stars sprinkle into the sky, waiting for the explosions of color and sound, the birthday candles of America's birthday—and the awesome cherry to the awesome sundae of the Williams twins' awesome twelfth birthday.

The night's glass-water scene was only broken a few times by the roaring laughter of Hetalia Boulevard's parents, now circling a fire they'd fixed, since The Game was over and the humidity descended to tolerable level. Most children wanted to sit around the fire, but since the fathers were drinking heavy quantities of beer (American lager to Mr. Williams' delight and disdain to pretty much everyone else), they agreed those younger than legal drinking age shouldn't be allowed in circumference. Though they made room for Sadiq, Herakles and G.

Russian immigrants and newest additions to Hetalia Boulevard, Mr. and Mrs. Braginski were complete opposites. First of all, Mr. Braginski took to American lager nicely and considered the Budweiser at almost the same grade as Russian vodka where his wife sipped it daintily as one sips liquor. The man towered over his wife, even when sitting. His face (red now) was all smiles, laughter and broken English, slipping into Russian more often as he clicked open cans of beer. His wife spoke only when spoken to and sounded like the winters of Russia had embedded themselves to her vocal chords. Despite their oddness, they were in the company of adults and therefore socially accepted.

"Alfred, for the last time, I don't know when the fireworks are going to start," Matthew Williams, the oldest twin (by two unholy minutes), said, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He threw a red six into the growing pile of Uno cards.

"It feels like it's been _forever_," Alfred said, cracking a yawn. Arthur smirked as he threw in a yellow six.

"Why? Is it getting close to the hero's _bedtime_?" Arthur asked. "Your move, Gilbert."

"Pfft," Alfred replied, brushing Arthur's comment as one brushes off an irritating gnat. "Heroes don't need bedtimes."

"Heroes under fourteen do," Gilbert said nonchalantly. He tossed a yellow reverse card.

"Don't _you_ have a bedtime, Gil?" Elizaveta asked with a wicked grin. Gilbert flushed an Uno card red, answering her question far better than any spoken word could have.

"Are you serious?" Roderich asked chuckling. "How old _are _you?" After Arthur placed a yellow five in the mix, he added a yellow nine.

"Fourteen and two months," Gilbert grumbled. He shot a glare to Elizaveta across the circle. The rest of the neighborhood children snickered at the white-haired-due-to-over-bleaching teenager.

"And you listen to her?" Jakob asked, wild grin and another swig of orange soda. "I haven't had a bedtime since I was seven."

"Have you ever been slapped by an angry German woman?" Gilbert retorted. Jakob had no reply other than a laugh.

"Like this afternoon?" Ludwig cut in, his face stoic and strangely placid, considering Feliciano was draped rather unceremoniously over his shoulders. He'd given up trying to get the eleven year old off him for some time now. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself for those gifts." Ludwig added his card to the mix. He was being completely serious, but his point was taken as fodder for guffawing.

"And this coming from the one who gave a politeness book," Antonio said, taking a bite of his third piece of cake with his fifth scoop of ice cream. The vanilla ice cream melted to a goop and dribbled off his fork into the grass. Antonio added a wild card, and declared the color to be green after looking over his cards, though regretting it as Tino's face lit up. Tino's puppy barked lightly as it stuck its fluffy head over Tino's shins.

Ludwig's cheeks pinked and he mumbled something about the importance of etiquette in proper settings and how most Americans didn't know anything about politeness anymore. This of course, resulted in Alfred most accidently squirting the Indiana resident with grape soda upon opening it.

"Oh, I'm sorry, did I get you there?" Alfred asked.

"Ve, Ludwig, you smell nice now," Feliciano piped, burying his nose in Ludwig's now tuft hair.

Ludwig muttered something under his breath ("God, why me?") as Tino added his card. The Finnish boy was now down to two cards. The other children noted this, and began checking their cards again for some way to keep the child from winning…again.

"Where're th'Russ'n kids?" Berwald grumbled. Though the darkness had softened his otherwise terrifying features and the other children were keener to answer his questions, they had no answer for this inquiry.

"They lef' fer s'da 'bout ten min't's ago." He added a blue four, causing Tino's face to fall. "Doesn' take tha' long t'find s'da." Berwald wondered how his best friend had managed to win three rounds of Uno when he was so obvious with which card he possessed.

Nine-year-old Raivis bit his lower lip, shaking, despite the evening's lingering heat and Tino's dog's adorable yelps (they really couldn't be called "barks") and jumps.

"Probably got lost. Al and Matt's house is, like, huge," Feliks said, dropping a blue eight and clicking his tongue. "Your turn, Tor."

"Maybe someone should go check on them," Toris said, tossing in his card. "Al, doesn't your dad keep his shotgun downstairs?"

"Oh, snap, Toris, you're right!" Al cried. He stood, dropping his cards for all to see. A wave of individuals leaned over to catch a glance at the self-proclaimed Uno champion's deck. "Hang on, Russian kids! I'll save you!" He was set to dash heroically to the house. Matthew grabbed the end of his shirt and tugged, slamming his brother into the ground.

"Dad moved it to the attic, dummy," Matthew said with a huff. Alfred's sudden panicked demeanor relaxed and he readjusted his position, quickly gathering his cards, wondering why they had moved face-up for everyone to see.

"You Americans and your peculiar gun mandates," Arthur said flippantly.

"How many times do I have t'tell you, Artie?" Alfred asked, flicking a grass blade at the boy. "_Small_. _Words_." He pinched his index finger and thumb together, indicating how large said words should be. Arthur then told his vocabulary-challenged second cousin (thankfully thrice removed) to go away to someplace very, very hot and quickly added to tell Francis' mother hello while he was there. Francis attempted to reclaim his mother's honor, but was swiftly silenced with a fistful of weeds to the teeth and mouth.

"Who cares 'bout them anyway?"Ten-year-old Eduard spoke, rearing the fleeting conversation back to its original catalyst. He'd been consoling his trembling younger brother, promising him that no Soviets were coming to take him away from the family and force him to the kolkhoz. Eduard's words didn't seem to be making much of a difference for the terrified nine-year-old. "If you ask me, it's—"

"Eduard," Toris said in warning. "All that stuff happened a long time ago. You two have to stop taking Nana's stories so seriously."

"They did the same thing to your family, Tor," Eduard said. Bedtime stories might as well have been memories by the look in Eduard's cement-grey eyes. His glasses (thick, even at his age), glinted in the distant fire and Toris could have sworn he saw the boy's eyes glistening with angry tears.

"Hang on. _Your _family?" Alfred asked. The Baltic Bros and Toris turned to the speaker, each with their own flavor of stun on their faces. Toris appeared more violent, while Eduard and Raivis had the curious look of persons about to break into shoulder shaking sobs.

Alfred pointed between Toris and the Baltic Bros. "I thought you guys were related."

"They are," Feliks said, rolling his eyes.

"We are," Toris said at the same time. "I've told you at least three times, Al. They're my nephews. Don't you ever listen?"

"Alfred only listens to himself," Arthur said with a grin. It was his turn again, so he added a blue three.

"I listen to you guys!" Alfred retorted, slapping his pretentious older cousin (thrice removed, thank God; he didn't want to be any more closely related to this elitist), on the shoulder with his deck of cards, once again displaying his rather horrid card selection.

"No you don't," Matthew spat, Yukon ice in his voice.

The jovial and light air came to a train-crashing-in-a-wall halt. There was no widespread shock among Hetalia Boulevard's children as Arthur would have expected to procure in lieu of such a downturn of events. Rather, there was an air of _I can't believe it actually took this long_ or _It's nine o'clock; you owe me five bucks. _

"When do I only listen to myself, Matt?" Alfred asked with equal malice. The twins glared at each other, sparks splintering off their gaze. Though they were born on the same day, the boys couldn't have been any different. Said differences now magnified and spotlighted. Matthew's chin tucked in a bit and he glared over his glasses, now halfway down the bridge of his nose. Despite his tone, his face was bleach-cleaned of emotion.

Alfred was a shaken soda can waiting to be opened. His breathing rapid, nostrils flaring. He clenched the grass to keep the obviousness of his hands trembling to a minimum. To see how angry he was progressively becoming, all one had to do was look at the twitching tuft of hair (that would never sit properly) to the right of his part.

"All the time, Al!" Matthew's voice cracked again. "You didn't listen to me last—"

"I was _so_ right about last year and you know it." Alfred stood and poked his brother's shoulder. Matthew stood and shoved his brother back.

"Last year, eh? I was—" Alfred shoved him.

"There you go with the freaking 'eh' again! You're not in Canada anymore, Matt!" His brother recovered and shoved back.

"Maybe I should go back, since you liked having me up there so much!"

"Maybe you shouldn't have—"

Matthew lunged at his younger brother, glasses popping off his face with a _snap_ as Alfred hit back. In their scuffle, they destroyed the pile of Uno cards.

Gilbert and Elizaveta were up and at the brothers' side instantly, trying to pry the children apart, though separating a Williams twin fight was next to splitting atoms.

"Ah, _rosbif_," Francis said, waving his hand in Arthur's direction, scoffing. "Look what you started."

"I started this?" Arthur asked, popping an enlarged eyebrow indignantly. Francis and the other neighborhood children nodded in unison.

What little pigment Ludwig had drained from his cheeks quicker than Bounty picks up a spill. He'd been unable to come East last summer, so, as with Arthur, this was the first time he'd seen such display between two twins he'd believed were fiercely loyal and loving to each other, albeit normal sibling scuffles. This was not normal sibling scuffling though.

Alfred dived around Matthew's waist, bringing both of them careening to the ground, now grappling: rolling and grunting and punching and groaning whenever they could get in a blow. Matthew held his own, and quite well, considering his glasses were a good twenty feet from him, and he was more or less blind. Antonio saved his plate of treats from a stray sneaker and mud fleck. Vash threatened to kill either twin after the fight if they got any closer to his cake.

"Well, perhaps if someone would bloody explain what the hell happened last year—"

"Arthur—"Jakob said, saving his orange soda. "—we don't talk about 1999."

"Well, why the bloody hell not?" Arthur looked back to the twins, standing again, thanks to Gilbert and Elizaveta's intervention. They slapped each other's faces. The fourteen-year-olds grunted as they attempted pulling the magnets apart. "And more to the point, you just let them fight like this?"

"It's like putting vinegar in baking soda," Kristopher, the Norwegian boy with the funny barrette and hat, said nonchalantly. "You just have to wait till it's done."

With a final pull and muffled _oof_, Elizaveta and Gilbert popped the brothers off each other. The teenagers dragged the boys in opposite directions, Elizaveta clutching Matthew at the waist, Gilbert pulling at Alfred's underarms.

Elizaveta turned Matthew to face her and kept a grasp on his wrists so he couldn't get away to attack his brother again. She spoke to him in attempts to calm him down, brushing his hair from his forehead, checking for cuts and major bruises (there'd be minor bruises regardless). His face was blotchy and eyes bleary. She replaced his glasses, patted the blonde on the crown of his head and gave him a matronly smile in reassurance.

Gilbert did the same to Alfred as Elizaveta had done to Matthew, sans all the girly head patting and smiles of course. When Gilbert had determined Alfred to be in decent physical shape (despite the finger-shaped bruises on his arms), he tousled his hair and told him he was ok. Alfred pushed Gilbert away.

The youngest twin readjusted his deck of cards and the center pile. He glanced around the circle of children and shot a _look_ to his brother, who'd been placed at the other end and if Lovino moved a bit to his left, out of Alfred's eyesight. Matthew caught the _look_ but did not falter.

"Come on guys," Matthew said quietly. "Whose turn was it?"

Arthur filed through his cards, unable to find a green or seven in his deck and thus turned to Matthew.

"Yours," the Briton said.

The kind of quiet of a crowd watching someone dismantle a bomb took over the children. Any sound surely would have caused the entire backyard to explode.

"H-hey, Matt. D'you have a green or seven?" Alfred asked, peaking over his cards at his brother. Matthew looked into the pile of Uno cards and then into his own hand. After rearranging the card's order, Matthew threw in a green four.

"Yeah. But you don't." The two smirked at each other.

The circle breathed again.

The back door slid shut with a soft _slam_ and Ekaterina trotted across the cement to the grassy area by the spindly cherry tree where the other children gathered.

"Gawd, Kattie, what took you so long?" Feliks asked, clicking his tongue. Ekaterina popped her head to the side, confused.

"Kattie?" she asked, eyebrows creasing like she'd smelt something odd. With her accent, the new nickname sounded as if it were three distinct syllables, key-at-ee.

"Yeah, Kattie. Your name's Katherine. I'm lazy. You're cool. Kattie." A smug grin tugged on the corners of his mouth. "Come on, join the game. We, like, need something to lighten the total bummer Birthday Boys decided to drop on us."

Matthew and Alfred huffed.

"Oh no, did something happen?" Ekaterina asked, instantly concerned.

"Nothing special. Sit next to me. Berwald scoot over," Feliks said, pushing the large fourteen-year-old away. No one noticed the pink that now sprinkled over Matthew's cheeks. The game continued while Feliks and Toris gave Ekaterina details of like, the greatest card game ever.

"Lithuania, you say, Comrade?" Mr. Braginski boomed from the adult's fire circle. "What part are you from? I have friends in the country."

On the Under-Twenty-One front, Feliks carpet bombed Ekaterina with questions. "Where's your brother?" "What took so long?" "Why does he wear that scarf?" "How's your English so good while your brother's sucks?" "Pfft, Tor, your fa-a-ace."

To which, Ekaterina answered in order. "He's still inside getting drinks." "He's interested in American electronics and I had to translate." "It's a long story." "I had a private tutor, but Dad got…how you say, in money trouble and couldn't afford for Ivan to learn. But I translate and teach him when I can."

"You're nice," Matthew piped, despite his vocal chords taking temporary leave from his throat.

"Aw, what a sweet sister," Elizaveta said drowning out Matthew's words. Ekaterina's cheeks pinked with the compliment and she smiled softly, bringing her knees to her chest. She noticed…what was his name, Matthew? She noticed him push his glasses up the bridge of his nose in a rather flustered way. "I wish I had younger siblings," Elizaveta continued. "I'd love to teach them stuff. You know, show 'em all the good places to catch garter snakes, the Tree Fort—Roderich, when was the last time we went out there?"

Roderich shrugged and threw in a green reverse card.

"Oh, you _dick_. Sorry kiddies," Gilbert said and recovered. He counted his cards once more, three cards, all yellow. "Lud, it's your turn." He inhaled a handful of Fritos "If I was an older bro, I'd leave 'em to their own devices," he flashed his teeth in a smile to Elizaveta, who's motherly demeanor was decreasing as Gilbert's arrogance increased. He barked a laugh. "Oh sure, I'd be there if they got hurt or whatever, but best to leave 'em to learn on their own."

"That's because you're a horrible little boy who takes joy in other people's pain, you rotten son of a—"

It sounded like an animal blended alive with screws and nails. The pitches and volumes oscillated like ocean waves. Despite the clamor, there were three distinct voices and if one listened carefully, they could make out lyrics: _It's a world of laughter, a world of tears. It's a world of hope and a world of fears._

The children in the circle slowly turned to the sound's source. Perhaps if they moved slowly enough, they could avoid the inevitable (seeing their fathers acting like frat boys on a home football game weekend).

Sure enough, at the Over-Twenty-One circle, there was Mr. Williams: be speckled and arms draped over Mr. Weillschmidt and Mr. Vargas. For what reason they were belting out this disturbing rendition of a childhood favorite, Hetalia Boulevard's children did not know, though one could assume it had something to do with Mr. Lorinaitis' comment that his family had once lived in the same ancient Lithuanian town as Mr. Braginski's aforementioned unnamed friend.

Mr. Williams was a man of the South. He was simple-spoken with a Mississippi lilt. Despite the tuft of hair that stuck straight up on the back of his head, his country idioms and overall carefree nature, Mr. Williams was not an idiot when sober. But Mr. Williams was not sober now. He was drunk. He was so drunk he hadn't realized he'd spilt half the contents of his fifth (sixth? Seventh?) beer with his exaggerated hand movements. Nor had he realized the dam keeping his drawling to a lilt had been destroyed and his accent had descended rather quickly to that of full-fledged rural Mississippi trash. He might as well buy a white wife beater and trucker hat with the Confederate flag.

"Kill me," Matthew deadpanned, sinking into a ball.

"Da—a—d!" Alfred whined, absolutely aghast at his father's behavior. He'd only seen his dad completely wasted once prior to this event. "Stop being country!"

Mr. Williams moved in slow motion, swimming through the goop of five-to-seven Budweisers.

"Al! Hey, Alfr'd, izzat you, boy? D'ya wanna join us?"

"_No!_"

"Alfred Franklin Williams, yeh git heuh ri'now, young man!" Mr. Williams pointed to a grass patch near his log-for-chair. Another quarter liquid split in the same spot.

"O-oh kay, honey," Mrs. Williams said with an embarrassed, though sober, laugh, plucking the Budweiser can from her husband's loosened grip. "That's enough beer for tonight."

"Aw, sweet pea, jus' one mo' sip?" Mr. Williams drawled, reaching for his drink and his wife. Mrs. Williams retracted to her chair. She crossed her arms and shot him a look that would have shut up the most sober and cognizant individual.

"The fireworks are probably going to start soon, ja," Mr. Carlson, the Danish widower, said to the children's circle. Like the Russian New Comers, he was a first generation American and therefore spoke English through a heavy accent filter. Unlike the Russian New Comers, though, he had been on Hetalia Boulevard for ten years. He nursed an orange soda. "Jakob, why don't you get your sister and the other girls upstairs?"

Jakob obliged and dashed into the house to retrieve the girls under ten. Of course, not without verbal assault from Vash, warning him of unspeakable punishments if he harmed his darling sister Ava during the retrieval.

Once Jakob entered the house, Ivan exited, carrying a tray of various sodas, his beige scarf kissing the cement.

"Jesus Christ, Ivan, what took you so bloody long?" Arthur shouted.

"_Ee-_van," Ivan retorted, readjusting the tray on his stomach.

"Ah-thu, yeh too young t'be talkin' lak dat," Mr. Williams chided.

Ivan was halfway across the cement when Mr. Braginski noticed his son and asked a string of Russian questions. Ivan stopped and listened intently, answering them in quick Russian, smiles and nods. Meanwhile, the sodas began to sweat and drip water onto his red-white striped t-shirt.

The back door slid open again and the missing boy and three small sisters piled next to the tree with the other children. Natasha pointed to her brother, as if saying, "no, leave me here with my brother," but was swept over Jakob's shoulder so quickly she hadn't time to protest in the grunts-for-English she knew.

Mr. Braginski had apparently asked his son for a can of soda (since no one around the fire spoke a word of Russian, they could only assume that's what he'd asked when the gangly blonde trotted to the group). There were two problems with Mr. Braginski's request, however.

First problem, Mr. Braginski had not taken into account that his son was a bit more overeager tonight because of the situation. A new country, neighborhood and children to meet and be friends with were usually conducive of a good number of frazzled nerves. This overlook might have been expected, because Ivan had always been an eager-to-please child and he appeared quite normal to his parents.

What _shouldn't_ have been overlooked was problem number two: adrenaline coupled with a body that'd grown four and three quarter inches in sixth months usually created an explosive chemical reaction known in the medical field as _bumbling clumsiness_ (the only ailment known to man without a Latin-based name).

Ivan's trot to his father came to a grinding halt when the toe of his shoe caught the heel of Mrs. Fernandez-Carriendo. Gravity then took its toll and pulled the five-foot-three-inched boy careening to the ground face-first.

This was not a problem.

Sodas flew from the tray and landed with solid thumps around and one hit a stray rock and opened with a hiss and geyser, sprinkling several mothers with sticky grape soda.

This too, was not a problem.

Ivan's fall had caused the top right corner of the tray to shift a log of fire. Several embers, large as thimbles, flew into the air and arched back to the earth and landed on the puddle of alcohol caused by Mr. Williams', Mr. Vargas' and Mr. Weillschmidt's karaoke nightmare. On impact, the embers caused a small explosion, hurling the twelve year old, and the adults in opposite directions.

This was a problem.

Mrs. Williams cursed her family and their uncanny ability to set at least _one thing on fire every year_ during a celebration. Among her curses were oohs, ahhs, screams and scrambles-to-safety from children and adult male alike. As the fire spread from the puddle to other parts of the backyard, no one noticed the plume of sparks breaking overheard in a fantastic display of lights, sounds and patriotism.

* * *

**Explosion**

(ĭk-splō'zhən) n.

1. A release of mechanical, chemical, or nuclear energy in a sudden and often violent manner with the generation of high temperature and usually with the release of gases

2. A violent bursting as a result of internal pressure.

3. The loud, sharp sound made as a result of either of these actions.

4. A sudden, often vehement outburst: _an explosion of rage._

5. A sudden, great increase: _a population explosion; the explosion of illegal drug use_.


	5. Is Foreshadowing at Noon Called Fore?

_The Musubi7's Fried Rice Corner:_

_Sorry this took so long to post! This week, this month--fuck, all of 2009 has been so bloody wonderful to me. Hahah. Anyway, my long line of crap is almost finally over. This next update, we're looking at somewhere between 1-2.5 weeks. Maybe three. I dunno. Depends how the curveball works out in my head. XD_

_Thanks for all your reviews and support! You have no idea how much it helps when times get tough. :D_

_Enjoy, minions, enjoy!_

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**Chapter Four: Is foreshadowing called _fore_ at noon?**

The stump of brown grass cut through the green like a nasty scar from an amazing fight. It was ugly to look at and sometimes upset Mrs. Williams to the point of tears, but above all else, it had a story the men of the Williams family enjoyed telling. Since then, Ivan had earned the nickname "Fire Trip" and was commonly referred to as such by the other neighborhood children. Mr. and Mrs. Braginski took their son's new nickname as a sign of endearment and were proud of him for making friends so quickly.

Speaking of the Braginski family, Old Man Johnson's house became progressively with Russian goods and Russian music, which the entire neighborhood could hear trickling from the open garage. Mr. Braginski kept it open while he and and his children moved goods from the moving van to the crumbling home shrouded in as much mystery as weeds.

Ivan, still wearing that ridiculous beige scarf, would wave to the Williams twins when they rode their bikes past the house. Alfred would nod, eyebrows creased while Matthew peaked into the garage like he was looking for someone. Arthur wouldn't acknowledge the Braginskis, but that was to be expected from the socially awkward thirteen year old who had to be dragged kicking and screaming to go bike riding with his obnoxious American cousins.

The cousins turned the corner and, since their neighborhood was on the edge of town, they were in the wild and vast expanse of raw, undeveloped New York soil. Soft dirt sank under their tires, kicking up plumes of must like a '73 Volkswagen beetle. Some pieces stuck to Alfred's face, who was behind Matthew, making sure the grumbling British teenager didn't ditch. The ground shifted into a steady decline.

It was quiet, save for the chains crinkling around their bikes. Once in a while, a crow cawed. For the most part, it was the hum of grasshoppers and the silent beating of sun on the backs of children. Out here, grass became forest trees, twitching in breezes. Cotton weed billowed and dipped, with the occasional one floating into Arthur's nose, resulting in a string of curses and berating and "why on bloody earth am I here with _you_ of all people and when are we going to stop?"

They finally stopped at an arbitrary point, partly to take a drink, mostly to shut Arthur up. Alfred tapped his kickstand and leaned over the bike's handles. Matthew did the same, but plopped next to his bike. Arthur lie on his back and watched the marshmallow ornaments hang in the denim blue sky.

"Why are we out here?" Arthur asked again, seemingly for the thousandth time that afternoon.

"We're taking you to the Tree Fort," Matthew said, shucking his blue Landsport backpack and removing a broken NutriGrain bar. He shuffled the bits into his mouth.

"What's so special about the Tree Fort?" Arthur asked. "I keep hearing about this amazing place and not a single person has explained to me why it's so bloody important to you all."

Arthur asked Matthew for a granola bar. Matthew tossed his cousin one, but with his increasingly worse depth perception, threw it a bit too hard, hitting Arthur square in the face. Arthur grumbled something while Matthew poured apologies and Alfred laughed. Arthur finally opened the bar, took a bite.

"It's really, really, cool, Arthur," Matthew said, flecks of granola bar flicking out. "We go out there all the time during the summer."

"To add to that, my uncoordinated cousin," Alfred said, popping the top back on his water bottle. Arthur sat up, leaning on his arms and Alfred plopped across from him. "The Tree Fort has been part of Hetalia Boulevard's traditions since, I don't know, forever."

"I was under the impression that the European influence was a _new_ coincidence."

Alfred shook his head. "There've been immigrants on our street since like, the beginning of immigrants. I mean, Frankie's family's part of the first Hetalia Boulevard crew. Hey, Matt, you got any trail mix?"

"Yeah, here you go. And oh, oh, oh, Al! What about Old Man Johnson?"

Alfred replaced his water bottle with a contented sigh and swung his leg over the bike's seat. Matthew stood, brushed himself off, replaced his backpack and did the same. They placed their helmets on; Matthew clicked the chinstraps on while Alfred let them dangle.

"No ghost stories till we get to the Fort, Artie."

"For the love of Christ, stop _calling_ me that!" Arthur protested getting back on his borrowed bike. The rickety thing was Mr. Williams' old mountain bike from a few years ago, too big for the vertically challenged British boy. Took him three tries to get up and over.

Alfred kicked up his kickstand and led the pack towards, what Arthur poetically deemed, a whole lot of bloody nothing.

As they rode through the flat, and occasionally tree peppered backcountry, Alfred and Matthew pointed out bits from Hetalia Boulevard folklore. The tree where Mrs. Ruiz, from Spain, hung her husband after an alleged cheating scandal in the 1800s. The place where Jaime O'Donnell, from Ireland proposed to his wife, Katherine Bodanski, from the Czech Republic ("or whatever it was called back then, Arthur, I'm not like you and know useless information about the world"), the first bi-ethnic family on Hetalia Boulevard.

The most curious piece of landform was a Stonehenge pile of cement blocks, grafitied and wind withered. Matthew said they tried to build a subway in this part of town, there's a place like this in downtown Rochester too, but the state didn't have enough money, so the project was scrapped. Since then, it'd been home to gangs and other seeds of mischief. Arthur wanted to check it out, but Alfred cut him off and continued to drag the passive aggressive teenager through the woods.

Through the ride, Arthur wasn't paying attention, too lost in his thoughts (wonderful fantasies of beating Alfred with a solid hardback copy of _War and Peace_), and stopped only when his tire dipped off solid ground. His stomach fell to his toes and he gulped, a panic taking over his heart and hands, trembling like a mouse caught in a dryer. Instead of the gradual decline, Arthur stared at a fatal forty-five degree drop. Trees reached over the dirt path, like a tunnel of cheerleaders cheering on the football team before they charged on the field.

Arthur made notice of the temperature drop and the increasing darkness down the tree tunnel and the gnawing fact that he couldn't see the end of the path.

Alfred skidded to a stop next to him. "What're you waiting for, Artie?" Alfred asked, "This is the fun part!" Alfred beamed, gripping the handle breaks, inching closer to the decline. "Ok, ok, ok, Matt, I'm gonna go first. I wanna see Arthur's face when he comes down. That and I think I can stop _on_ my bike, and without running into the tree."

"Tree?" Arthur asked. What little color he had in his face drained rather painfully.

"Oh, come on, Carlton," Alfred in protest, patting his cousin on the shoulder causing him to jump a bit in seat, "don't be a spilt hot coffee on jeans on an Atlanta summer day."

He turned to Matthew, who'd been in the process of slamming his forehead in his palm. Alfred placed his hand on Matthew's shoulders and gripped tightly. "Matt, if anything happens to me," he started. Matthew looked up and caught his brother's eye over the rim of his glasses. There was no emotion in his face, just the raw determination of a soldier about to go to war. "You're _still_ not getting my Pokémon decks or CDs."

With that Alfred sped off, leaving nothing but a tuft of dirt. He sat up in his seat, catching the wind and adrenaline as he zipped away. With each pedal stroke, he gained more speed until he was sure to jump back in time or break the sound barrier. A grin caught his face, wide and wild. He'd never felt so awake, aware, alive and all those other clichés about soaring and living and whatever. He whooped the entire five second trip.

Matthew glanced at his watch, counting down from five while Arthur slowly retracted into his bike seat, burying his face into crossed arms, looking progressively greener.

"Three…two…one," Matthew said.

There was a skid, an "oh no!" and the _oof_ of a five-foot, one-hundred-fifteen pound boy careening to the earth at nine-point-eighty-one meters-per-second.

"And that happens all the time?" Arthur asked, peeking at his younger cousin from crossed arms.

"Yup. But that's coz Al's stupid and tries to take this hill at sixty-miles-an-hour," Matthew said. He smiled, trying to reassure his cousin that travelling the slope wasn't an automatic death certificate. "You'll be fine. Just take it slow."

"_Ow-w-w-w-w-w_," Alfred moaned, voice muffled by distance and altitude drop. "Matt, did you bring a splint? I think I broke something."

"Oh, stop whining, y'big baby," Matthew said, rolling his eyes. "Arthur, I have to check on Al. Make sure he didn't do any real damage."

"You're going to leave me?" Arthur asked, wool-like eyebrows perched high (didn't his parents send the boy to get them trimmed two weeks ago?). "Alone?"

"Well, you're not gonna be alone for long."

"Matthew, I'm dying!" Alfred called. "Ah, it hurts so _ba-a-a-d_."

"Coming!" Matthew cried. "You'll do fine, I promise. And if not, we've got the hospital on speed dial." With that, Matthew pushed his way through the tree tunnel, shouting to his little brother to stop complaining so much over a splinter.

Which left Arthur at the top of the hill.

Alone.

He inched to the decline's start and quickly wretched back. His heart clawed at his ribcage, demanding exit as if possessed by an ethereal demon. If he gripped the handle bars tighter, it would have turned to ash. He stared at the decline, rationalizing his decision to stay or go. To stay meant to miss out on this "Tree Fort" the neighborhood children had been chirping about since he'd arrived four months ago and summer started. To go meant risking his life in a neck-breaking free-fall defying all facets of physics and gravity. To stay—

A branch creaked under weight and _snapped_.

Arthur jumped about twenty feet in the air and his bike passed the incline's start and began a frightening and bumpy ride.

In later days, the sound that came from Arthur's metal encrusted mouth would be described as a small female child between the ages of three and six, having both pigtails caught in a van's door while her ankles were nipped by micro Chihuahuas.

Arthur's bike slapped a large stump of a rock and suddenly he was staring at a sky of tree underbellies in a bed of leaves, sticks and dirt, breath coming in short quips, never fast enough.

"Whoa! Arthur! You flipped five times in the air!" Alfred said, jumping, excited. "That was so _wickedly awesome_! That was amazing! Do it again! Do it again! Ow! Matt, don't hit the injured!"

Arthur wanted to seep into the earth and disappear. Two back landings in one week, surely he was one step closer to full blown paralysis?

"Arthur, are you ok? That's two back injuries in a week! Can you move your hands? Blink if you can understand me! Oh, God, he's dead!"

"I'm not dead," Arthur wheezed. He managed to roll over on his side and due to improper weight distribution, landed face first into the leaf pile. He pushed himself off the ground, back spazzing, but he sure as hell wasn't about to show that on his face. He stood and took a moment to get his balance and glared at Alfred.

Arthur lunged toward Alfred, screaming, "I'm going to kill you like I should have last week," but was stopped by Matthew's arm.

"Arthur, you can't kill family!" he said.

"Yes I can when they've attempted murder _twice_ now. Let _go_ Matthew!"

"No!"

It was at this moment that Arthur took notice of his surroundings.

The tree path and hill had lead to an alternate world, one from childhood fairytales and legends of years ancient. Tall spruces sealed the area, large enough for two dozen people to reside comfortably, in a woodland bubble. The land continued pooled to the center, where an oak, thick as six children, sat royally, its branches arching in a protective sort of manner, shielding the spruce babies from onlookers and the sun. A crudely made wooden balcony hugged the trunk, wooden planks planted lackadaisically on the side. Looped wire and rope swings dangled from thicker, higher branches like Christmas tinsel.

It was darker here, sunlight only penetrating the ground every few steps, dust and dirt sparkling like magic dust. It was quiet. Not even the chirping of birds or grasshoppers or crickets.

"Wh-where _are_ we, exactly?" Arthur asked, feeling his anger depleting.

"The Tree Fort, dummy," Alfred said, leaning on a spruce, taking a swig of water. He grinned. "Told you it was awesome."

"And this has been part of a Hetalia…tradition?" Arthur asked, eyebrows crossed.

"Yup." Alfred trotted to the center oak and climbed up the plants, finding rest on one of the un-tinseled branches. He latched his legs around the branch and fell down, swinging like a piñata. "Every few years or so, new Hetalia Boulevard kids come and add new stuff to this place. Like this," he pointed to the balcony, "Sadiq, G and Herakles made it before they started hating each other."

"When did that start?" Arthur asked.

"I dunno," Alfred said, shrugging his shoulders, shirt falling to his face. He swung around and straddled the branch. "Hey, Matt, can you break out the sodas and Pop Tarts?"

Matthew did as he was asked while Arthur threaded through the area, taking in the scenery, trying to take as many mental pictures as possible. Matthew scaled the tree and parked himself at the edge of the shoddily built ledge. He handed Arthur his Coke, while he sipped on a Dr. Pepper. He offered Arthur a Pop Tart, but was politely turned down. When offered a Sprite, he obliged.

It didn't take long for Arthur to meet his American cousins on the tree, drinking soda, staring into a place he was sure divinity had touched.

"So, Old Man Johnson," Alfred said. "Matt, you're up. This is your story." Arthur grumbled. Matthew smirked, and placed his Dr. Pepper next to him. He cleared his throat.

"Once upon a time, on a quiet block, far, far away from the main city, there lived a crumbly old man in a crumbly old house. His name was Leonard Johanisson, and had traveled to New York from his home country in Germany after the Great War in search of a better life. After crossing Elis Island, he changed his name to a more American sounding "Johnson," but he was still rejected by his American neighbors. The children on the block began to call him Old Man Johnson, even though he was only thirty or so.

"Mr. Johnson was a soldier for the Kaiser, whatever the heck that was and way back then, they didn't have things for people who freaked out after they went to war. In fact, going to a shrink was extremely looked down upon. So when he started hearing the gunshots of the trenches every day, he simply went mad."

"This is the good part," Alfred cut in.

"Sh-shut up," Arthur said, devouring his Pop Tart, waving him away.

"A child on the block, known as the European Block before it was known as Hetalia Boulevard, went missing for three days. Immediately, the neighborhood pointed fingers at Mr. Johnson, but he insisted he had no idea where the boy was, that he didn't even know the child's name. A few months later, another boy went missing. Again and again, children were plucked from their parents' holds. They said evil resided in that house and demanded to search, as if Mr. Johnson were some sort of Pied Piper, demanding charge for the adults' terrible behavior to him."

"Did they ever find the kids?" Arthur asked. Matthew grinned wider, seeing the fear etched into his cousin's face.

"Mr. Johnson died shortly after the accusations of the sixth child was reported missing. They said he died with a smile on his face, as if to mock the parents of the lost children that they'd never find them.

"A few weeks later, someone was complaining of a nasty smell coming from the house. They called the cops, fearing what it could be. The team entered the house and examined it, attic to basement, searching for the source of the smell. When they got to the basement, the smell was the strongest. There were no electric lights in the house, so the room was brightened by flashlights and the few oil lamps they found mounted on the wall.

"Slowly, the room was filled with orange light. One by one, the police officer's eyes adjusted to the weak light and sure enough there were _limbs_—"

Matthew clawed his hands and jumped toward his cousin and younger twin. Arthur and Alfred yelped.

"—of children hanging from the ceiling, rotting and full of maggots as things of that nature should be. Some were stripped clean of meat and only splintered bones remained. The rumors of evil residing in the house were quickly stated as fact, because only a man possessed with the devil could commit such atrocities.

"For seven decades, no one lived in that house. It was quickly rumored, passed on by each Hetalia Boulevard member to the next that should anyone live there, the spirit of Old Man Johnson would be unleashed, bringing terrible things to the peaceful block. When Mom and Dad moved here, they got the same introduction and when we were little, Francis told us about it. Al didn't believe him, but he only had the guts to touch the door. Since then, he's believed."

"And now the Braginskis have moved in to that house?" Arthur asked. "Is the spirit going to be unleashed and bring death upon the block?"

"Nope. Safe as a Puerto Rican in Manhattan," Matthew said with a grin.

"Well, that's what Matthew thinks. I'm pretty sure it's only a matter of time before weird stuff starts happening."

"You're crazy," Matthew said, rolling his eyes. Honestly, his brother could be such a dork sometimes.

"Well, how 'bout this, huh? What if Sadiq and Herakles start fighting again? That almost broke up like, four families. What if he kills Herakles because he's possessed by Old Man Johnson?"

"Herakles and Sadiq haven't fought for years. Not since we were in elementary school," Matthew said, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

"_We_ haven't fought in a long time," Alfred pointed. Matthew's eyebrows creased and his gaze turned to his dangling feet, noting the careful stitching in his shoes. The temperature dropped something cold and frosted, like a mid-December snow. Matthew kept his eyes on his shoes and shifted slightly. Alfred coughed and quickly recovered. "N-not like last week anyway."

Arthur wondered if now was the time to ask about last year, but quickly dismissed the notion.

"It would be rather peculiar and perhaps equivalent to spiritual intervention if Gilbert and Elizaveta started 'going out,' wouldn't you say?" Arthur offered, trying to wield the conversation back to happier tones.

His cousins simply stared at him, blinking occasionally, letting him know they were still alive.

"What did he say?" Alfred asked Matthew in a hushed tone, as if Arthur couldn't hear him.

"I don't know. Something about Gil and Liz going out," Matthew replied with the same hushed tone. Alfred stopped, let the statement simmer before he and Matthew threw their heads back and guffawed. Alfred nearly fell out of the tree, but quickly recovered, much to the annoyance of Arthur, who was now a lovely shade of three-hours-in-the-sun-pink.

"Good one, Artie. And here I thought couldn't be funny." He wiped a faux tear from the corner of his eye. Arthur opened his mouth, as if he were to say something, but was quickly silenced by Alfred's interjection. "While we're talkin' 'bout this, you know what else would be weird?"

He never had an opportunity to further divulge because there was a _snap_ of branches breaking under a heavy foot.

"What was that?" Arthur asked, scanning the Tree Fort's area. His ears perked as he listened for the sound again (he'd heard it before today, he was sure).

Alfred's smile and happy demeanor Velcroed off with almost an audible _scratch_. Memories of Old Man Johnson's wandering soul came to mind. Alfred Saran-wrapped to Matthew.

"It's Old Man Johnson's spirit come to kill us!" Alfred said, voice spiking at the end like a bath squeak toy.

"Urgh, Alfred, ge'off me," Matthew protested, shoving his brother away.

There was the _snap_ again.

"Come on, we need to get out of here," Arthur said, ushering his younger cousins down the tree. He waited on the ledge for the Williams twins to reach ground before he descended.

_Snap_.

"Did that sound closer to you guys?" Alfred asked, panic wavering his voice.

"Yeah it did. Now go, go, go!" Matthew said, pushing his brother.

Arthur wasn't sure where they were going through the rushed panic, leaving their backpack and helmets behind, only that they were going up a hill on the other side of the tree. It was steeper (if possible) than the Tunnel of Doom. When they reached the top, the fairytale shattered and they were back in reality. They were back in suburbia, with the familiar houses and cars and the steady beat of a Russian rock song.

Wait, they were back in suburbia?

"Alfred," Arthur asked. "Where are we?"

"Oh, we're back home. We took the short way."

"Arthur you_ can't_ kill your family members!"

"Like hell I can't. Unhand me, Matthew!"

There was a crash of shattering glass in the house directly across them, the Karpusi home. The three stopped their brief moment of tomfoolery to observe the colonial home with green Exterra in the driveway. The front door opened and a seventeen year old boy flew out, landing on his side, skidding to a stop on the grass.

"Get out of my house, you dirty Turk!"

*

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*

*

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**Portent**

pôr'těnt' (n.)

An indication of something important or calamitous about to occur; an omen.Prophetic or threatening significance: _signs full of portent._Something amazing or marvelous; a prodigy. 


	6. It's Like Pulling Teeth

**Chapter Five: It's Like Pulling Teeth**

Herakles' father wasn't a very tall man, but what he lacked in height, he gained twofold in brute force and rage. Sadiq's body hadn't even come to a complete stop when Mr. Karpusi exited the house, shouting a variety of colorful words that shouldn't fall upon children's ears—unless of course those children were of British descent and then they would have been hearing said words for years and were probably already using them.

Sadiq, seventeen and cocky, was not to be outdone by a stark-raving mad man of forty something. Once he gained his bearing, he stood and shouted right back at the old man, using the same colorful language. Once in a while, he would slip into Turkish, which, being Greek, would send Mr. Karpusi into deeper bouts of rage.

"Marios Karpusi! Get back in this house and leave that boy alone!" a female voice called from inside the house, the speaker, Mrs. Karpusi, soon exiting waving a wooden spoon, thick with that night's dinner. She wielded the spoon as an Amazonian weapon, aimed at her husband, ready for the fatal blow.

"I've got this under control, Sophia," Mr. Karpusi said evenly. He hadn't turned to face his wife. "Why don't you go inside and—"

Mrs. Karpusi struck her husband quick and hard against the back of his head, causing the older, shorter man to reel and howl with pain.

"I don't need your charity," Sadiq spat. Mr. Karpusi held the back of head, stringing more colorful words, though this time, opting for the Greek substitutes.

"No, you don't. You're _all_ grown up, aren't you Sadiq?" the sarcasm wasn't missed from the younger boy who wiped the trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth with the back of his wrist. "You _also_ don't need—" Mrs. Karpusi reached into Sadiq's windbreaker pocket and pulled out what appeared to be a very old and very expensive and well…odd looking small religious statue of the Virgin Mary and baby Jesus.

Sadiq reached for it, but Mrs. Karpusi wretched the artifact back. She crossed her arms, popped an eyebrow and tapped her foot impatiently.

"Care to explain why you need this? I mean, we can start with the obvious fact that your family is Greek Orthodox and then slowly make our way to the point that this is an heirloom from my now-dead father."

Sadiq, at first, had no answer.

And in case we'd forgotten, the American-Canadian boys and their British second cousin (thrice removed) were sitting on their bikes, watching this event unfold. None of the boys had experienced this sort of confrontation between the Karpusis and Annans and lapped up the argument like a Survivor marathon.

"I'm waiting, Sadiq," Mrs. Karpusi said. The seventeen year old couldn't muster a guttural response in his defense, let alone fully fledged words, arranged in order of subject and predicate with an overall theme and maybe a few adjectives sprinkled in for fun. His jaw locked and eyes ablaze. His face slowly turned the shade of burnt-tourist, though hidden wonderfully under his darkened skin.

"What are you doing with my son?" A new female voice spoke. All on the street, to include the nosy Williams twins and British second cousin (thrice removed), turned to the speaker: a tall and lean Turkish woman. She sauntered to her son and placed her hands protectively on his shoulders.

"Disciplining him, Eda. What does it look like?" Mrs. Karpusi said.

"Sadiq doesn't do anything wrong unless…_provoked_ by _your_ son," Mrs. Annan said, jerking her chin in Herkales' direction; the sixteen year old still leaning in the doorframe. His usual nondescript face did not change, save for a mosquito which decided to land and take a quick drink of the Grecian's blood.

"_Your_ son stole _my_ statue which was given to _my_ father in World War II," Mrs. Karpusi's said, voice Warhead candy sour.

"Oh _that_ thing?" Mrs. Annan asked, raising her voice, pointing to the statue. "I believe it belongs to me."

"What are you talking about, Eda? This is my _father's_ from World War Two when he was in Greece fighting off the likes of _your_ lot. He gave it to me on his deathbed."

Mrs. Annan snatched the item from Mrs. Karpusi's hands.

"Was your grandfather in a small village in Northern Cyprus?" The question was a slap across Mrs. Karpusi's face.

"How did you—?"

"This was carved by _my_ grandfather and _obviously_ given to _your_ family as a mistake. I'm sure my dear grandfather had no idea he was gifting a Greek."

"What's going on over here?" Mr. Williams called from the street. "I hope the Greek and Turkish families aren't _fighting _like they were doing four _years _ago."

"Oh, good! A lawyer. I call dibs," Mrs. Annan said.

"You can't call dibs on the neighborhood lawyer!" Mrs. Karpusi said in indignation. Mr. Karpusi added a phrase of Mrs. Annan's origin and the very hot place beneath the Earth's surface where she was sure to go if such behavior kept up.

"You most certainly cannot, Eda," Mr. Williams said, stepping between to the two women. The man's eyebrows creased as he finally noticed the three small children parked, watching this event unfold scene by scene. "Al, Matt, Arthur. What are you kids doing here?"

"Uh…um, we were coming back from the Tree Fort when Sadiq was thrown out of the house," Alfred said.

"I wasn't thrown! I…I _fell_," Sadiq retorted, cheeks flaring Target red; his mother gave his shoulders a reassuring squeeze as if to say, "you keep telling yourself that, dear. No one saw you fly through the air like a discarded piece of junk mail."

"Go home boys," Mr. Williams said to his family. "This isn't for kids."

Alfred's face pinched in frustration, wanting to stay and prove to his father that he _wasn't_ a child anymore. He was twelve years old now, practically an adult!

"But, Dad!"

Mr. Braginski trotted from his cave of boxes across the street to the Karpusi's home, Ivan (still wearing the beige scarf) only steps away. He stood next to Mr. Williams and the height difference was extraordinary. Mr. Williams never considered himself a short person, but standing next to the Russian was like placing Scotty Pippen next to Larry Bird.

"Carter, is there a problem?" Mr. Braginski asked.

"Nothing that can't be solved with a little _peaceful_ conversation," Mr. Williams said evenly, looking at the women he'd stood between.

It didn't take long for the husbands of the Karpusi and Annan household to crawl from their abodes to defend the honor of their wives, while whacking at each other with a Sears Catalogue amount of insults and swears. The children abandoned, Herakles and Sadiq watched the mayhem unfold from the awning shaded porch of the Karpusi household. They waved to the younger children, who waved back.

Mr. Braginski and Mr. Williams were trying to separate the arguing families, mostly trying to keep Mr. Annan and Mr. Karpusi from jumping each other and slicing each other's throats with knives they probably kept on their person at all times in case such opportunities to maim a member of the opposite side of the Aegean Sea should arise.

Mr. Annan, finding no satisfaction in just insulting one race, turned his anger to the Russian.

"Hey!" Ivan piped, utterly horrified that such words should befall on his father. He clamored to his father's side and tried to pry the forty-year-old man off Mr. Braginski. "Don't talk about my dad like that!"

Mr. Annan's face sported a lovely burnt beet shade and shot the same rhetoric to Ivan.

Mr. Annan: "Get off of me you—_filthy_—Russian!"

In one fell swoop, Mr. Annan shoved Ivan off his arm. The boy, awkward in stance and balance, skidded across the pavement.

You could have heard the air escape from a slashed car tire.

"Your whole damn race," Mr. Annan said, approaching the injured boy with fire in his eyes and intention in his hands. Ivan's face flushed a stop-sign red, eyes glistening with humiliation. "Ever since the beginning of fucking _time_!" Mr. Annan continued. "And _you_ with that stupid scarf! Are all Russians so heartless they can't feel warmth?"

Mr. Braginski stopped the man with a swift elbow-to-temple.

Mrs. Annan screamed and attempted to retaliate, or at least gather her husband in her arms, but Mr. Braginski scooped her up and carried her on his shoulder.

Alfred, Matthew and Arthur did not move from their spots in the street.

Mr. Williams began escorting the Karpusis back to their house by the gruff of their shirts.

"Matthew!" Mr. Williams said from over his shoulder.

"Yes sir?"

"Take your brother and cousin home."

Matthew didn't move. His eyes darted from Ivan, to the now knocked out Mr. Annan, to the screaming and crying Mrs. Annan draped over the shoulder of Mr. Braginski like a hunted fawn, to his father. Breath and words caught in his throat.

The two boys on his flank refused to move as well.

"That wasn't a suggestion, Matthew," Mr. Williams said sharper than a blade of glass atop a needle stack.

Matthew, the good twin, the one who didn't stir trouble, the one who did what he was told, nodded and began to turn his bike around.

Alfred, the troublesome twin who didn't so much look for trouble as he found its phone number in the Yellow Pages and called it daily, turned his bike and began to pedal back to the house.

Arthur, who'd only been State-side for four months, had absolutely nothing to say, so he turned his bike and peddled away as well.

"Is that…normal?" Arthur asked, voice low.

"I've never seen them get like this," Matthew admitted. "Ever. Not even when Herakles and Sadiq's fighting got way out of hand that one year."

"It's the curse," Alfred said. "It's the Russians and they've brought about the spirit of Old Man Johnson!"

"Oh, shut up, Al," Matthew said, rolling his eyes.

Arthur's eyebrows perked, eyes widened. "Are you saying that even after everything that's happened today, you don't believe the stories, Matthew?"

"Coincidences _do_ happen, Arthur," Matthew said as-a-matter-of-factly. They reached the garage and Matthew pressed the combination in the wireless opener grafted to the side of the house. The door whined upward.

Matthew looked over his shoulder at the street, now empty, though they could hear muffled shoutings from both Karpusi and Annan household. If one listened carefully, they could pick up murmurs of Mr. Williams screaming at Mrs. Annan for being a bored, stupid housewive stirring up the mulch of a five year old argument that arose from _boys being boys_. A thick summer breeze rolled through, ruffling trees and hair and curly bangs that got in the way of everything. There was nothing more than the street, the sidewalk, the dozens of houses that dotted the cul-de-sac. There was nothing but a quiet that suburban neighborhoods wore like cashmere to the country club.

The twelve year old pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

"Yeah. Just coincidence."

"You're unbelievable," Arthur said. "There is no way an argument of that magnitude could have procured without the direct intervention of the Spirits."

"You know what? I've given up asking you to speak like a real human being. Really, I have," Alfred said, raising his arms in indignation.

"Shut up, Alfred and read a bloody dictionary."

Because he was twelve and the depth of his arguments were rather lacking, he stuck his tongue out at Arthur.

"Do you have any…um…bandages?" came Ivan's voice from behind the Williams' parked SUV. He peeked around the fender. His face was blotchy and a quick wrist to eye confirmed that, yes, the child had been crying, but wasn't about to show such weakness to the other neighborhood children. The side of his gangly right leg was scratched up; little beads of scarlet blood dripping like sweat into his socks. But other than that, he appeared fine.

"Ivan! What the—Jesus Christ, how did you get here so fast?" Arthur asked. "And what are you doing here anyway?"

"_Ee-van_," Ivan corrected, with a hint of acid (because he'd been living on the block for at least two weeks now and _really _was it much to ask for the proper syllable emphasis on his name?).

"Well, answer the question, Ivan. What are you doing here?"

"It's…too, um. Noisy. It's too noisy in my house. And Dad doesn't want me inside with Mr. Annan." He paused, mulling the memory like a fine wine, though perhaps not as enjoyable. He did a double take as he realized that yet _again_ Arthur had mispronounced his name. "_Ee-_van."

"He'll never get your name right, so don't even bother correcting it," Matthew said. Ivan's eyebrows creased as he desperately attempted to translate Matthew's words into his own, but failed miserably.

"Could you…say that…again?" Ivan asked. "Slower please?"

Matthew was about to repeat his statement, and drop an idiom or two to make it easier on the poor boy when Alfred decided to stop focusing on the dragonfly flying around the garage door opener and to the boy who'd wandered to their block in search for a Band Aid and perhaps some friendly conversation.

"Hey! Fire Trip, you're bleeding!" Alfred pointed. And suddenly his whole demeanor changed to that of urgency and authority. He grabbed Ivan by the shoulders and dragged him into the garage, leading him to a single box. He commanded the New Kid to sit on the box.

"Matt! Go get the Band Aids from the house—" he examined the scrape, still dotted with asphalt pebbles—"and maybe some rubbing alcohol."

"I don't drink!" Ivan protested.

"No, not that kind of alcohol, dummy," Alfred said.

"Got it!" Matthew squawked.

He'd gone three days without speaking in an octave only dogs could hear. Of _course_ the good luck couldn't have continued any longer.

"What's going on?" a new voice from behind the SUV. Ekaterina stepped from behind the vehicle, wearing an older pair of too-large overalls and busted sneakers. She opted for a pale blue headband. Matthew noticed how it matched her eyes first and then noticed _who_ was standing in his garage door.

"Katya!" Matthew squeaked. He clamped his hand over his mouth, wishing to all things Good and Holy in the universe that he could just _get over_ this stupid phase in life.

"Where the bloody hell do you people keep coming from?" an aghast Arthur asked.

"Mark?" Ekaterina tried, eyebrows creased in concentration. Matthew bit his lip and shook his head.

"No, Matt," he corrected albeit a bit sadly.

"No, I'm serious! Do you spawn in new locations according to desire? Do you have some secret gene that allows you the stealth of a Japanese ninja?"

"Oh! Matt, I'm so sorry! I'm terrible with names and—what happened, Ivan?"

The thirteen year old turned all of her attention to her brother, crouched to his level and began speaking to him in Russian. Ivan, obviously, was trying to pass off the event as a mere accident, but Ekaterina had that innate older sister gene which allowed her to read through his fabrication. Their voices escaladed as one accused and the other defended.

Ekaterina wore a purple t-shirt under the faded overalls. It was a good color on her. More blue might have drowned her out, but the purple was nice. Matthew liked it and couldn't help the smile that began tugging on his lips, making him look a bit lawn-gnomish.

There were rainbows and Celine Dion.

"Matthew! Band Aids!" Arthur said, snapping his fingers in front of the boy's face.

And at once he was slapped with the sopping wet, raw tuna of reality.

"I got it! I got it!" Matthew said before catching another glance of Ekaterina and disappearing into the house. He returned, not two minutes later, with a box of patterned Band Aids: this particular brand, a 100 pack of highlighter colors not socially acceptable on human beings since 1997, and a brown plastic bottle of generic rubbing alcohol.

While Ivan tended the scrapes, the boy turned to his sister and spoke, once more, in Russian, rapid enough to confuse native speakers. Ekaterina would slip into English every once and a while, letting the non-Slavs to ponder how the scent of rubbing alcohol could remind one of their father. Perhaps Mr. Braginski was a nurse or a doctor and often came home smelling like a hospital and antiseptic liquids.

Ivan smoothed the square Band-Aid over the area and thanked the Williams for their help. Older sister in tow, the two waved goodbye and walked home.

A rather pronounced blush had crossed Matthew's cheeks. Alfred was absolutely sure it caused by the sun (because Matthew didn't tan very well; he got more of his mother's French and Canadian genes than Alfred, who toasted in the sun like a marshmallow over campfire flames).

"See, Alfred. They're absolutely harmless," Matthew said. There was a chirp in his voice as if he were happy to have finally proven something to his brother.

"Uh, Matt, this doesn't prove anything," Alfred said, crossing his arms.

"Of course not," Arthur piped.

Matthew's face fell deeper than the San Andres Fault.

Alfred clasped his brother's shoulder and turned, leading the three of them into the house, closing the creaking the garage door behind him. Arthur walked beside the older twin, making a Matthew sandwich.

"You see, Matthew," Arthur began. "What you saw was a _ploy_." Matthew pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, afraid to follow both family members' logic.

"What's a pl—"

"A fake. An imitation. A hologram of what's really there. Enron," Alfred said. He chuckled at his own joke. Matthew cracked a smile, but not for the joke, but for the simple fact that Alfred had said something humorous that didn't involve bodily fluids or innuendos to activities neither participated.

"They are using this persona as nice people to lure you into a false sense of hope," Arthur added. "And unfortunately, you are falling for every moment of it."

"Therefore, it's our job to keep you safe, Older-Brother-By-Two-Minutes," Alfred said.

"No!" Matthew pushed his twin off his shoulders. "No! Al, how many times do I have to tell you that your 'rescue plans'"—fully animated finger quotes—"_don't _work!"

"An' how many times do Ah have t'prove to yeh that there is _evil_ on this here Hetalia Boulevard and it stems from _tha' _house!"

Matthew and Arthur both found themselves in a state of complete and utter shock, unable to say anything in response, not to Alfred's statement, but to his sudden turn from Normal English to Mississippi Anglish.

"What?" Alfred asked.

"I…I have nothing to say," Arthur said.

"You're turning into Dad!" Matthew exclaimed, breaking the silence, pointing at his younger sibling, finding much glee that humiliation in the form of the spoken word had come from someone other than himself. Alfred's face had burnt to a lovely shade of over-cooked lobster. Horrified, a hand flew to his mouth, as if to keep back the flood of Southern aphorisms and dialect, but the levee had already broken.

"I spoke Country?" Alfred asked, his voice barely above a whisper, to which Matthew nodded, still entrenched in a fit of laughter to answer properly. Arthur, who was too emotionally repressed to show any emotion beyond vague smugness, even cracked a metal-clad-teeth bearing smile. "I'm too young to be turning into my parents!"

"Next thing you know you'll be deer hunting with Uncle Ray," Matthew said, gathering himself for a moment before bursting into fits again.

"Not the one who lives in a trailer!" Alfred said.

"And you'll have a bubba hat," Matthew added. Alfred clasped a hand over his heart, feigning a heart attack, trying to keep a straight face. "And a gun rack on your truck—a rusted 1974 _Chevy_."

"Say it isn't so!" The younger collapsed into the wall behind him, pressing his wrist to forehead.

"And you'll be wearing—" Matthew's eyes shifted to the left and right, as if searching for a set of ears who should not hear the forbidden words that were about to come from his mouth. "—_flannel_."

"Critical hit!" Alfred slid down the wall. It was hard to keep the laughter to a minimum as either twin found this most amusing. Arthur thought the conversation was fun (and there was always fun abound when _Alfred _was the receiver of barbing jokes) and decided to throw his own insult into the cauldron of snarky banter.

Arthur: "Yes! And one day you'll be eating slices of venison on thin crackers bought from the local grocer."

Dead. The laughter had died faster than a squirrel on the 390.

"Wow," Alfred deadpanned, picking himself up off the garage floor. He dusted himself off and asked Matthew if there was lint on his back. His brother said no.

"Jeez, Arthur, you sure know how to kill a mood," Matthew said, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

"What did I say?"

"Hey, Al, you want some lemonade? Mom made some earlier before we went out." The twins turned their backs to their second cousin and began walking into the house.

"Sure, Matt! Sounds great. When was the last time Mom made lemonade?"

"Wait, guys! What did I say?"

"Um, last week, Al."

"Oh."

"Guys! Seriously! What did I say?"

They closed the door in response.

Arthur harrumphed, crossing his arms in a very childlike manner. He ran his tongue over the metal bumps in his mouth in contemplation. What had he said to make his cousins leave him in the garage? It wasn't a _terrible_ statement; perhaps on the odd side, but it wasn't terrible. He hit a bump just right, and nicked himself. He cursed as metallic blood pooled on his tongue.

_I want to go home_, he thought bitterly. _Back where things made sense._

The door opened again and Arthur was about to say something in retaliation to the earlier spot of humiliation. He was caught off guard when it was the twin's mother in the doorway, fishing something out of her purse.

"Mrs. Williams?" he asked, a rug of an eyebrow lifting. They were related, though distant in age enough that Arthur couldn't find it in himself to call her _Cousin _Lisa. She was at least fifteen years his senior and he was a proper English gentleman to boot! Never would he deny a lady her proper title.

"Oh, Arthur, there you are. I'm so happy you're here and that my boys didn't leave you in that dirty tree fortress thing. Ah, there they are." She fished out her keys: all eighteen of them, connected by a large red fuzz ball of a keychain. It had googley eyes whose pupils moved inside the plastic eye casing. Arthur found the keychain both intriguing and utterly disturbing. He hadn't made notice of her speculation that his second cousins would leave him at the Tree Fort.

"Mrs. Williams, the place we were at earlier is called the Tree _Fort_, not the Tree Fortress," Arthur corrected.

"What? Oh, ok then. Anyway, I completely forgot about your orthodontist appointment. It's in, like, forty minutes and we have to drive into town, so you need to get in the car. Like now."

She opened the garage door and it whined in response. She gave him a light push to the family Ford SUV. The Cadillac was Mr. Williams and he refused anyone's request to even _look_ at the shiny black thing without his supervision. No one had the heart to tell him it wasn't all that impressive since it _was _a 1983 Cadillac.

Matthew was behind his mother and eagerly stepped into the car, sitting next to Arthur in the second row.

"Where is he?" Mrs. Williams said with some heat under her breath. She turned to Arthur and Matthew. "Such good boys." She ruffled Arthur's hair (but one couldn't really tell as Arthur's hair seemed to eat combs and looked like it hadn't been properly managed in years) and patted her oldest's head.

She trudged back in the house and yelled various loss-of-Internet-privileges and loss-of-television privileges and groundings. Soon, a scamper of feet and a sullen Alfred appeared in the doorway. She gave him a proper whack behind the head, another long rant of _Your father's playing hero between the Fighting Families so you'll have to make do with me and I don't put up with your crap, remember?_

"But I don't _want_ to go to the eye doctor! I don't need glasses!"

"Alfred Franklin get in the car! Right! _Now_!" The child began to open the back door to sit next to his brother, but Mrs. Williams closed the door. She pointed to the passenger seat. "Sit up here so I can keep an eye on you."

Alfred grumbled something (though it came out as a whine), opened the door and climbed into the passenger seat.

Mrs. Williams kicked on the ignition and began to drive out of the block. Alfred reached for the radio. His fingertip hadn't even whisked across the dial before it was slapped away by his mother.

"Don't change the radio Alfred," she said through her teeth.

"_Mo—o—om!_"

"Don't _'Mom'_ me. You got yourself into this mess and now we're gonna be late. You happy now?"

Alfred crossed his arms and pouted.

This was going to be a long drive.


	7. Seeing Things with a Finite

**Chapter Six: Seeing Things with a Finite Eye**

It would take two weeks for Alfred Williams' glasses to arrive from the Ojo Company in San Antonio, Texas. They were rectangular, small, wispy framed, baring an uncanny resemblance to Mr. Williams' specs; the similarities duly noted by a happy-to-finally-get-that-over-with Mrs. Williams. Alfred had fretted and squirmed the entire time he was on the chair and had even attempted to smooth talk the high school intern out of his examination. The boy was so much like his father. Once the doctor had written up their prescriptions, Mrs. Williams shooed the children into the SUV. Inside, the boys fell into a rather heated argument about something which she had no reference for. It would be a background buzz until they reached home and she'd shoo them to play for the rest of the afternoon.

While her boys were talking at a rate which made them sound like television static, the other child in her custody, Arthur (second cousin, thrice removed), was uncharacteristically silent. His mouth was nothing short of a hell locked pyre prodded by the fingers of Satan himself. The orthodontist, a small, masochistic Asian woman by the name of Doctor Li, had to bind Arthur to the chair with a slap across the cheeks, duct tape and promptly sending him down a guilt trip a Catholic nun wouldn't dare tread. His green eyes were swollen and red rimmed because he had _not_ been crying like a six year old girl lost in a Macy's on Black Friday.

Mrs. Williams was just happy that _one _of these damn kids could keep their mouths shut.

Matthew had grown tired of arguing with Alfred over the benefits of starting Pokémon Red with a Bulbasaur versus Charmander. And Alfred had become enthralled with antagonizing their currently mute cousin. Matthew gazed out the window and watched the strips of land buzz by in wisps of green and blue. He didn't put much thought into what he was to do when he got home, but he had assumed that whatever had sparked the incident between the Karpusis and Annans had blown over and life would return to some semblance of normalcy.

We all know what happens when one assumes, right?

Shadows were long when the SUV pulled into the driveway. Matthew saw Sadiq and Herakles sitting on the Williams' front lawn. Their faces resembling the same enthrallment as a kindergartner in a lesson about the food groups. Mrs. Williams killed the engine and exited the car as her boys did.

"Sadiq?" Matthew asked, slamming the door shut. Alfred, who'd been sitting in the middle, let his brother know quite plainly that he didn't take nicely to the door shutting in his face. Herakles huffed and flopped on his back, arms outstretched like a Roman cross.

"Sup Short Stuff?" Sadiq asked, nodding in Matthew's direction.

"What's going on?" Matthew asked. "Why are you guys sitting on our lawn?"

"Because it was _here_," Herakles said in his near monotone voice.

"Are they still going at it over there?" Mrs. Williams asked, adjusting her purse. Sadiq and Herakles nodded.

"We came here because it seemed like neutral territory," Sadiq said.

Mrs. Williams cursed under her breath. She instructed her sons and cousin's son to stay here while she tried to diffuse the situation. Even though her husband was a lawyer, he was often too idealistic and was prone to…_creative_ fixes to complex ordeals. She had to intervene before he made the situation worse and beyond repair.

"Herakles, which one is Mr. Williams in?" Mrs. Williams asked with a candy apple voice.

Sadiq and Herakles pointed to the Karpusi household. Mrs. Williams nodded. She gave Alfred her purse and told him quite sharply that he was not to do anything that would result in a burnt house or damaged goods— goods including his brother and cousin. Alfred twisted his face in a frown, but took the purse, noting with a slight heartstring tug that his mother continued not to wear her wedding band. She walked with a quick step.

"So why here and not over at the Braginski house?" Al asked, dropping his mother's purse on the cement.

"The youngest one has a _knife_," Sadiq said. Herakles rose, eyes wide and eyebrows creased. He ran his hand through his hair.

"I don't understand!" he said, first to the ground, then he moved his eyes to the Williams twins and the mute cousin. "What culture would allow a _seven year old girl_ to wield a knife!"

"It's got to be a Russian thing," Sadiq said.

"Or maybe a _ghost_ thing," Alfred said under his breath, though not as _under_ as he had intended, because Matthew heard him and slapped his shoulder for being so ridiculous.

"Or maybe it's a _ghost_ thing," Herakles said pensively. "They seem to be occupying the same residence as Old Man Johnson."

Sadiq perked and cocked an eyebrow, looking at his friend over his shoulder.

"Say what now?" the Turk asked.

Matthew groaned. He slapped his forehead against the passenger window of the family SUV. Alfred's lips pulled in a smug grin.

"Ha! See, told ya so," he said haughtily.

"This doesn't prove _anything_, Al," Matthew said, voice muffled by his arms and the window. On the other hand, no amount of insulation could have prevented the masses from hearing Matthew's sound barrier breaking voice destroying his phrase.

"Remember the curse of Old Man Johnson?" Herakles asked, stroking his chin and staring off into the distance, as if he were actually looking into the past. "Those who reside in his house will be cursed with his bloodthirsty tendencies."

"Herakles," Matthew pushed himself off the car and cleared his throat. "Those are just bedtime stories. I'm only twelve and I know that."

"It…um…well, it _could_ be a viable explanation for the strange behaviors," a whisper, barely audible. Sadiq pinched his eyebrows and looked over his shoulder at the source of the sound.

"What happened to you, Limey?" he asked, looking the second cousin over.

"Braces tightening," Alfred and Matthew chorused. Sadiq nodded, wincing sympathetically.

"Rest up, Little Man," Sadiq said, giving the thirteen year old a reassuring nod. "You're gonna get through this."

"Yes, but is the neighborhood going to get through the unleashing of a spirit so foul that it was responsible for twelve deaths about ninety years ago?" Herakles posed the question.

"There's nothing there!" Matthew said, throwing his hands up with indignation. It was as if he were speaking to a group of blind, quadriplegic babies on skateboards: they were on an uncontrollable tangent, and it was his duty to reel them back into some semblance of a logical conversation, but it was just beyond his grasp.

"Oi! Twins! Dumbasses!" called the bleached blonde haired devil of Hetalia Boulevard. Gilbert Weillschmidt trotted from across the cul-de-sac bend, hands buried deep in the pocket of his denim shorts, shoelaces untied and billowing in his stride, but miraculously never wrapping around his ankle and causing another disaster. "What's goin' down in Funkytown?"

"_Nothing_," Matthew said, shooting his brother a stern look. Gilbert was already in their presence. He exchanged hellos with Sadiq and Herakles, the latter asking him if he'd reached his goal of becoming a mobile sun. The comment was missed by Gilbert, but not by Arthur who snickered in the back.

"Well, obviously it's _something_ or there wouldn't be a powwow going on over here," Gilbert said with a grin. "Whatever it is, I want in on."

"There's _nothing_ going on, Gilbert," Matthew said with pinched lips and a growing heart pressure rate.

"Ah, but that is where you are wrong, _mon cher_," Francis Bonnefoy spoke with his plastic slick French accent, peeking behind the SUV. The fourteen year old had donned himself in a paisley print olive shirt and crisp white pants and dazzling shoes Cher wouldn't touch with a twenty foot pole. Arthur curled his lip, partly because the boy's presence made him want to throw up, partly because those shoes actually made him do so.

"What do you want _frog_?" the Briton asked with as much sarcasm as his pained teeth could allow, which, wasn't much. He seemed as intimidating as a cat in a thunderstorm.

"What the rest of us want," Antonio said, creeping behind Francis, a very angry Lovino in tow. "Isn't that right, Lovi?"

"Piss off, you stupid son of a—"

"Right then!" Francis spoke, clapping his hands together, cutting off Lovino's implied curse. "What is this _rendezvous_ about?"

"Ghosts!" Alfred said enthusiastically pumping his fist in the air. Matthew dropped his face to his open palm and muttered something under his breath about being surrounded by overenthusiastic idiots.

"Ghosts?" Francis said with a disappointing tongue click. He sighed in a pretentious sort of way reserved for aristocrats and Hollywood types. "Gilbert," his voice almost a whine, "I was expecting something…_less_ fake."

"They're more real than your accent, Frankie," Alfred said. The accompanying children snickered, even Arthur, who found great joy in any sort of blow against Francis' ego, no matter how minor. Francis curled his lip, and when Alfred had returned his attention to Gilbert, had stuck out his tongue.

"I'll have you know, _l'Amérique_," Francis protested, "that my family has—"

"No one cares, Francis," Gilbert said, cutting off his friend, waving his hand nonchalantly.

Francis huffed and flitted with his fingernails. His eyebrows crossed, he looked up from them. "Well then, why don't we get this under way then," Francis said, defeated temporarily, "I'm getting bored."

Arthur rolled his eyes. He would have done more to berate and destroy the French American, but the metal bars across his teeth, searing them rather than shifting them into position, forced him to keep his mouth shut.

"So, _ghosts_, is it?" Gilbert asked, a wicked grin gracing his face, his deep violet eyes glinting with mischief. This was the sort of thing he'd wanted all summer. It was getting boring in the Weillschmidt household, and with the hawk like gaze of his mother, there was only so much a fourteen year old could do. He stroked his chin, thinking up the possibilities, recalling the various ghost hunting shows and books he'd perused. This was going to be fun—yes, this was going to be fun.

"What kind are we talking about?" Antonio asked, a pleasant, yet slightly unaware grin upon his face.

"_Lo—vi!_" came the shriek of a small child. It was pathetic and whined like a kitten who had lost its mother.

"Oh Christ, look what you did," Lovino spat to Antonio. "I told you I couldn't just leave him alone."

"But Lovi, your brother's what—ten? He can handle himself."

"The last time I left him by himself, my parents ended up calling Poison Control _and _the FBI."

"And if Chef Boyardee is on his way—ah, yes, my dearest little cousin. Oi! West!" Gilbert called, waving.

The slick haired, thirteen and a half year old, jogged behind the sobbing ten-year-old Italian, saying comforting trinkets like, "don't cry, we'll only play Name that Participle one more time!"

"Oh, good afternoon, Gilbert," Ludwig said slightly winded, coming to a halt next to his cousin. Gilbert nodded in return. "What's the occasion for this meeting? And why wasn't I invited?"

Somehow, Feliciano had managed to climb on Ludwig's back in that conversation.

"Lovi, why did you leave me alone?" Feliciano asked, or, rather, whined.

"The better question is why haven't I killed you yet?" Lovino spat in return. He grumbled and rubbed his temples, a tension headache coming on.

"_Anyway_," Gilbert said sharply, bringing the conversation back to him and the pressing moment at hand. "We were talking about ghosts."

"No, we've gotten past that part," Antonio remarked. "We were getting to _que tipico_ ghosts."

"Come again?"Alfred said, raising an eyebrow.

"What type, Al!" Matthew said. "How can you not know _any_ Spanish when you spent the same amount of time in Texas as I did in Canada?"

"Quebec French is not French," Francis interjected, voice full of disdain as if someone had come along and scuffed his only-appropriate-in-Las-Vegas shoes.

"Ladies, ladies, ladies!" Gilbert cut in once more, feeling his patience wear thin. "What kind of ghost are we dealing with?"

Sadiq and Herakles, who had been remarkably quiet throughout the ordeal, filled in the missing bit of information with a simple: "Old Man Johnson."

Where there had once been kafuffles on the brink of total war, there was only silence. Antonio, Lovino and Feliciano crossed themselves and praying something inaudible. Once he had moved that abruptly though, the ten-year-old fell off Ludwig's back. Ludwig had been to Hetalia Boulevard enough summers to know the story of Old Man Johnson; he also knew that any shenanigans Gilbert was planning would most likely be against The Rules, but he'd get dragged into the mess anyway.

"Old Man Johnson, huh?" Gilbert asked, nodding, thinking of the possibilities of awesome this would bring them.

"What're we gonna do, Gilbert?" Alfred asked, eyes wide with anticipation.

"We're not going to do anything, because Gilbert Weillschmidt is a fool and a stupid, stupid boy."

A female voice. Everyone turned to the mouth of the cul-de-sac, where Elizaveta marched up, with Roderich behind her. Her chin length brown hair was tied back in a ponytail, a flower in her left ear. A black messenger bag slung over her shoulders.

"Fool and stupid are pretty much the same thing, Eliz," Gilbert said. "You repeated yourself." Elizaveta paid no heed to Gilbert's remarks.

"Gilbert Weillschmidt, I leave you alone for three minutes and what do I find?" she said, tapping her right foot, looking uncomfortably similar to his mother. Gilbert pushed away the resemblance in his mind and shrugged.

"It's nothin', babe and—"

_WHAP!_

A paperback manga slapped Gilbert across the face. He reeled back, holding his scarlet cheek, eyes flaring.

"I am _not_ your babe, Gilbert," Elizaveta said. She tucked her manga in her bag. Her right hand, the one closest to Roderich, slipped out. The aforementioned boy laced his fingers through hers. "And I will _not_ have you poisoning the minds of the little kids!"

"Hey!" Alfred retorted. "I'm not that little anymore!"

Arthur, who was closer to Alfred than Matthew, saved the older twin the trouble and slapped Alfred across the back of the head for him.

"I was talking about _them_." Elizaveta said, jutting her chin in the direction of Francis and Antonio. Lovino found this hysterical. Francis and Antionio protested loudly, but the fourteen year old girl quickly shut them up.

"Look—_Liz_—here's how it's gonna happen," Gilbert said. "If a ghost is what caused this little _situation, _we'll conjure it, find it, and capture it. End of story. If there is no ghost, we don't do anything and we look for alternative methods. Is that all right with you? Either way, we solve the problem."

"I'm afraid that I've gone silent long enough," Arthur said, internally cringing at making his mouth move against the push and pull of the metal wires. "I must interject."

"We really wish you wouldn't," Gilbert and Alfred chorsed. Arthur ignored him and continued.

"There _are_ such things as spirits and we _cannot _disturb them." He paused to run his tongue over a metal bit, sending a shock of pain through his entire body. He cleared his throat and continued, hands behind his back and walking toward the ringleader.

"Besides that, you don't have the capability to understand the intricacies of the Spirit Realm. If you open the door wide enough, you can unleash a whole lot of other rotten beings. Demons are particularly tricky and I have no desire to see the end of my days by the hands of one of the devil's creatures."

"And you know these _intricacies_?" Gilbert asked, raising an unbelieving eyebrow.

"I'm not _masterful_ in them, but I know enough not to go meddling in the afterlife," Arthur said, crossing his arms. His mouth was on fire, and his toes ached from the pain of talking. He hoped this conversation would end soon, or he was certain that he would pass out from the pain. He also had a feeling that the neighborhood children would be particularly grateful if he simply done so and figured he should stick around for another lecture just to spite them.

"You're all a bunch of idiots," another male voice. This time, the new speaker was Vash Zwingli, in tow with his younger sister Eva. Vash had an air soft gun in the shape of an M-16 strapped over his shoulders. Where Vash was mostly calculated behavior and big guns and defense mechanisms (he would put the Home Alone kid to shame with the amount of booby traps he could set up), his sister was small, petite and sweet as a cupcake on top of a mound of Hello Kitty memorabilia. Eva didn't say anything, simply slipped behind her brother. She was dreadfully shy.

"Whatever caused the fighting this afternoon was _not_ natural. The Karpusis and Annans have been quiet for years. It almost got onto my lawn and I swear to God, if I have to trim it again because someone stepped on it, someone is going to pay for it."

"Vash…don't you…like, have parents who should be worried about this sort of thing?" Alfred asked, not really remembering the last time his parents asked him to mow the lawn, but something told him it wasn't that long ago, and it was passed instead to his brother.

"I do!" Vash sniped back. "They feel the same way. Do you—do you have _any_ idea how long it takes to make a lawn as perfect as ours is? I mean, really? Do you?"

Alfred had to admit that he did not.

"We'd like to keep it that way. And if trapping a ghost is the only way to do so, then we're going to do it."

"Aren't you rushing to conclusions?" Roderich spoke, tightening his grip around Elizaveta's hand; Gilbert pretended that he did _not_ see it. Vash and Roderich had been very close childhood friends, but different interests, different schools had pulled their relationship apart to a mere acquaintance. Roderich hoped he had the leverage to stop the madness from spreading, halting it with the Swiss.

"Not at all, Roddy," Vash said, crossing his arms. "I want this thing fixed and I want it fixed as soon as possible."

"Vash—" Roderich started again, trying a different angle.

"He's made up his mind, Piano Man," Gilbert said from behind, slapping Roderich on the back, releasing his grip on Elizaveta's hand. "And I've made up mine. We're going ghost hunting tonight!" A fist pump from Gilbert and the small crowd that had procured cheered. With the exception of the nonbelievers, which made up roughly half the group. So, in all, it wasn't quite the rally Gilbert wanted, but at least he got some fists up, which was better than nothing, he had to contend.

"We'll go to the Tree Fort tonight," Gilbert said. "Someone bring an Ouija board."

"You can't open the Gate of the Sprits with an Ouija board!" Arthur protested, throwing his hands up in indignation. Honestly, the naivety of some people. Gilbert creased his eyebrows. "Besides that," Arthur continued, "Johnson's spirit is already in this realm, isn't that what's causing the ruckus? You've got to lure the spirit away from its capsule, the house and—oh bullocks." Arthur stopped. For one because his braces began to place an exuberant amount of pressure on his teeth. For two, he realized the depth of what he'd said.

Gilbert grinned again, slightly this time, but there was the same level of mischief in his eye. He pulled his face in the same look a seven-year-old boy in want of a Tootsie Roll would give his mother. "Now, you wouldn't want us to get _hurt_ while we were calling on this ghost, now would you Arthur?"

"I wouldn't mind throwing _him_," he jut his head in Alfred's direction, "in front of a steam roller—"

"Hey!"

"—But…ugh…you lot of imbeciles would probably kill yourselves and about five hundred other people in Greater New York. You're all a bunch of gits."

"Would you want all those bodies on your hands?"

"But I told you not to do it!"

"But we would got out and conjure the spirits anyway. Zwingli over there's gotta have his perfect lawn, duh. Anyway, Arthur, you _knew_ how to conjure the spirits properly, but you didn't. And now us," he swept his hand over the crowd. Elizaveta rolled her eyes. "We're gonna die because of your inaction."

"You don't want us to _die_ Artie, do you?" Alfred asked, turning his face in a similar fashion as Gilbert.

Arthur's resistance was melting faster than an ice pop on the leather interior of a car parked in Dallas in the summer. He grumbled and rubbed the back of his neck.

"Christ, you two are insufferable."

"What's going on over here?"

"Ach! Another one?" Francis asked, tossing his hands in the air. "Why don't we just go door to door asking everyone if they want to join our stupid little crusade against ghosts that _don't_ exist?"

"They _do_ exist, you stupid frog, and you'd do well to remember that. Ivan, these idiots," Arthur motioned to Gilbert, Alfred, Sadiq and Herakles, "believe that they can capture the spirit which resides in your house and stop the madness of ill feeling before it can spread to anything more disastrous."

His sisters were with him.

The youngest Braginski dashed in front of Arthur. She wore a blue dress that billowed in a light breeze. Her blonde hair was held back with a black satin bow, which lay limp over her bangs. Her gaze was as icy as a night in the Yukon, her mouth a small line. She held a knife to his throat. The small horde gasped. Arthur stopped, suddenly feeling that a slight pressure of metal on his teeth was better than the slight pressure of metal on his jugular. A drop of sweat ran down his back.

Sadiq and Herakles were on their feet at once. Matthew and Alfred had stepped closer to their cousin, though exactly what they could do to deter the situation was beyond them.

"Natasha!" Ekaterina cried, horrified. The oldest Braginski dashed to her sister and pulled her back. She spoke hurried Russian to the seven year old, reprimanding her. When Ekaterina took the knife, the girl burst into tears and jumped, demanding to have the blade back. Ekaterina held her sister in place and tucked the blade in the back pocket of her overalls.

"I guess the rumors are true," Herakles said flatly, though that was the only way Herakles spoke, flatly.

"I guess," Sadiq agreed. "She's just lucky I'm not eighteen with a gun permit."

"What kind of crap are you pulling, Braginski?" Herakles said.

"Ivan!" Arthur cried, trying to keep his gentlemanly composure (and eyes tear free) despite being seconds away from death. "Y-your sister i-i-is psy-_psychotic_!"

"She meant no harm!" Ekaterina tried, but even she knew the excuse was weak. She gripped her sister's shoulders tight enough to elicit a cry from the younger one.

"She put a bloody knife to my bloody throat!"

"So," Ivan said. He readjusted the beige scarf. "Is ok for Vash to wear guns, but not ok for my sister to have a knife?"

"She put it to my bloody throat!"

"It's Old Man Johnson's spirit!" Alfred said, dashing to the center of the mass, taking advantage of the situation. "Don't you see, guys? It's spreading! We've got to stop the crazy old man before he kills us all!" He turned to the nonbelievers, Elizaveta, Roderich, _his own brother_ and Francis. "Frankie, Frankie can't you see that there is evil among us?"

"Only the evil of stupidity," Francis said looking down his prominent nose, pushing away the twelve-year-old.

"Eliz, Roddy, you gotta see the light here. Matt—my own flesh and blood—Matt. You've gotta see it too!"

The eldest twin made a quick glance to Ekaterina. She was looking particularly lovely today: the same faded overalls, a pink shirt and red headband. Her large blue eyes were wide with horror and anger at her sister, whom she kept in steady place. His heart beat faster, and he was certain it had nothing to do with the near death experience of his second cousin (thrice removed). He had no idea what she felt of the Old Man Johnson story, but he knew showing her that he would not fall to bedtime stories and superstition was a good move.

Yes, there was Celine Dion once more.

The oldest Williams twin finally spoke. He cleared his throat and hoped to every deity he'd ever heard of to keep his voice in check.

Whatever he said was undistinguishable. Dogs in Syracuse cringed. His stomach dropped somewhere between his knees.

It was then that he realized he was no less foolish than Alfred—doing the same thing over and over again, trying to woo the Russian girl who occupied the majority of his dreams and failing miserably. Every time he tried, he got the same results: a cracked voice which made holes in the sound barrier, a giggle and humiliation. Good judgment told him to forget about Ekaterina and return his focus to Mindi, but something in his heart told him otherwise. Matthew looked over his brother and was jealous for the blissful non-woman life he led. The definition of insanity: doing the same thing over and over, expecting different results.

"Matt! Matt! Matt!" Alfred called, snapping his fingers in front of his twin's face, dragging him kicking and screaming from his thoughts. "You keep staring off into space like that. I'm really starting to worry about you. You're not runnin' a fever are you?"

As Alfred reached for his brother's forehead, and as Matthew shoved him off, Gilbert filled the Braginski siblings in with what had happened, their conjecture and their determined solution.

"This um…hunting of ghosts…is this a common practice in America?" Ivan asked, unsure.

In the background, the shoving match between Matthew and Alfred had broken out into a full-fledged scuffle. With a _pack_ Alfred was pinned to the ground. He grunted, and answered Ivan's question:

"Only for those brave enough to face them," Alfred said. He rolled to the side, throwing Matthew off balance. The eldest fell and now Alfred had the upper hand. No one seemed to notice or care that the boys were playing on a cement drive way.

Ivan furrowed his eyebrows and glanced at his older sister, whose demeanor had not changed since Natasha decided to show everyone what a brilliant knife collection she had. He wasn't sure he could trust a lot that couldn't pronounce his name correctly even after he'd been on the block for more than a month. On that note, he was almost sure that was what sparked Natasha's violence; even if she couldn't understand English, she could hear when someone mispronounced his name. It was an act of defense and honor defending. No shame in that really.

It's what he kept telling himself. The latter, that his stepsister really was psychotic, was a bit too large of a pill to swallow. And on that note, Ivan did just that, wallow, and turn to his half-sister, whose demeanor and grip on Natasha's shoulders had not changed. "Katya, _chto vey dyemaete_?"

Ekaterina seemed to trust the boys, especially the speckled blonde one, who was currently slamming his brother into the grass. Gilbert, the bleach haired one, called for the fight to continue. Ivan wasn't so sure. But if their moving into the house somehow disturbed a serial killer from the nineteen hundreds, it was their responsibility to send him back.

"Gilbert!" Ekaterina called, making the fourteen-year-old jerk his attention back to the Braginski siblings. He barked at the Williams boys to knock it off. They did so, no questions asked. Although Alfred elbowed Matthew's side and Matthew flicked him on the bridge of his nose.

"Have ya decided then?" Gilbert asked.

Ekaterina nodded. "We will go with you."

"W-will the knife wielder b-b-be staying at home then?" Arthur piped. Ivan nodded, and reassured the frightened Briton that there would not be a drop of human blood spilt from his sister. It seemed to calm him down.

"Excellent," Gilbert said. "Now, I assume _you_ lot will be staying surface bound then, since ghosts don't exist?"

"I will go down as well," Francis said, "but not to hunt for a ghost, to see the terror upon Arthur's face when you conjure nothing."

Arthur responded with as many obscenities as his metal clad teeth would allow.

Elizaveta huffed. "I suppose we'll go down too," she tugged on Roderich's hand and he moved closer. "To make sure you don't actually kill someone. We don't need a Blair Witch—"

Antonio, Lovino and Feliciano crossed themselves quickly.

"—Project on our hands."

"Gilbert, please tell me that you've _thought_ this through," Ludwig said with a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Of course I have," Gilbert responded.

"For more than five minutes?"

"Let's not worry about it, West," Gilbert said, patting his cousin on the shoulder. "You comin' with us?"

"Well, Feli, are you going?" Ludwig asked his…well, he wasn't quite sure he could call Feliciano his friend, more like a pet or a mascot really.

"Maybe we can lure the ghost with pasta! Lovi, do you think the ghost will like Nana's canolis?"

"Maybe he will like paella!" Antonio said brightly. "My mom made some the other night. It's so good and ah, I can taste it already, though it needed some more tomato sauce. It always needs more tomatoes I don't understand…"

All the while, Lovino's face continued to resemble the fruit (or is it a vegetable?) that Antonio described.

"That food's for the living!"

"Hey guys," a new voice asked. The group turned to the new comers: five blondes of various height and Scandinavian origin. The Nordic Five or the Scandi Five: Tino, Berwald, Jakob, Kris and Ice. Tino's dog yipped at his feet. It was Tino who spoke first, and it was he who asked the question: "What's going on?"

Gilbert slapped his forehead with his open palm.

**myopic **

(mī-ō'pē-ə) adj.

_1. __Ophthalmology_. pertaining to or having myopia; nearsighted._2. _Unable or unwilling to act prudently; shortsighted_3. _Lacking tolerance or understanding; narrow-minded 


	8. Devil Went Down to Georgia

**Chapter Seven: **

**Devil Went Down to Georgia**

**…But Stopped in New York for Pizza**

At exactly 8:30 PM, Mr. and Mrs. Vargas had bid their youngest son goodnight. Mrs. Vargas had tucked him in and kissed him lightly on the forehead. Mr. Vargas told him to dream of a never ending feast of pasta and raviolis. Feliciano's eyes fluttered shut, and his parents left the room. At exactly 8:34 PM, Lovino yanked Feliciano from his room and dragged him from the comfort and warmth of his bed, outside, down the street to the Williams' house. It was ghost hunting night.

Ordinarily, the Williams' garage was filled with _stuff_; tonight it was filled with tweens, waiting for their self-appointed leader, Gilbert Weillschmidt, to wrestle a five hundred dollar VHS video camera from the hands of Elizaveta Héderváry, all the while, ignoring his cousin, Ludwig Weillschmidt, who attempted to remind the two fourteen year olds that, although he was only thirteen, the camera _was_ his.

There was a chill of anticipation hanging in the room, mostly caused by the wait for Gilbert and Elizaveta to figure out who was operating the camera. Francis Bonnefoy sat on a broken barstool, leaning on an old air hockey table. He sighed, dramatically blowing a strand of hair from his face, as if he was hogtied, and forced to watch a marathon of Full House while watching Keanu Reeves read his 1047. Matthew stood by the Nordic Five, twiddling with his fingers, not watching the side door for any particular sibling trio to walk in, with a particular overall wearing girl with black barrettes in her yellow colored hair and the laugh that sounded like water cascading gently on rocks with sunbeams and Aliyah in the background—

Sadiq, talking animatedly to a rather stoic Herakles, tripped on Matthew. The oldest Williams Twin by a mere two minutes (and if you asked their mother, the most well behaved) crashed to the carpet ground.

"Sorry, didn't see ya there, Mattie," Sadiq said. He offered Matthew a hand to his feet. Matthew mumbled a thank you, but returned his gaze to the side door, where all Hetalia Boulevard's children came in. He gave a short wave to Lovino and his brother, Feliciano, when they walked through, but was nonetheless dejected.

With a final _shove_ and crash into the shelves of canned goods, Gilbert had the camera. He held it over his head and whooped triumphantly, holding the camera like a trophy deer head. Out of the corner of his eye came Elizaveta, defeated but not dominated, who slapped the machine out of his hands. Matthew did a quick head count, because the older children couldn't be trusted to do their jobs properly: the Nordic Five was in the house, Arthur was coming later with the Ouija board and Magic textbooks, the Baltic Bros were in, and—

Maple syrup, Jesus and Mary. The side door opened and in like a breath of fresh air, like sunbeams in a storm, like April brings May, walked Ekaterina. Matthew wasn't sure, but he was quite positive he was hearing Minnie Riperton at that exact moment. She wore dark washed overalls, a crisp green shirt and had tied her short cropped hair with a scarf headband. She looked around the shelves of canned goods, of baseball, football and hockey equipment, those sapphire blue eyes looking for someone she recognized. And then…_bliss_! He made eye contact with her and the song grew louder and clearer in his head. No psychotropic medicine required.

Suddenly, they were next to each other.

Gilbert and Elizaveta had abandoned the camera, which had fallen at such a precarious angle that it was able to record their fight. Ludwig picked it up, dusted it off and inspected it for cracks. He attempted to inform his cousin and his cousin's friend, that he now had the camera. Dejected, Elizaveta landed a white hot kiss with a fist on Gilbert's shoulders, muttering on about him starting something for nothing. He was too awesome to be knocked off balance.

"Hello, Matvey," Ekaterina said. He hoped to God, Milk Bags and all things Holy that she did not notice the redness of his cheeks and his voice remained intact.

"H-hello," he managed to squeak out.

"Aww…lookit de wittle chiwdwen and thew wuv affaiw," Sadiq said, interlocking his fingers and pursing his lips. Gupta, whom the children called G, snorted. Herakles, the stoic philosopher of sixteen, chuckled.

Matthew felt his ears prickle and his stomach dropped out of his body and settled into the ground, twelve feet under, where he would be more than willing to escape to. He noticed that Ekaterina didn't object.

"Are you ready to go ghost hunting?"

A simple question. A stupid simple question and his brain decided to go Windows 98 on him, packing its things and leaving him in the dust without so much a goodbye note or wave.

"If you…if you really believe that ghosts are what's behind the…I mean, statistically speaking, there isn't much of a chance that this was caused by anything but adults being stupid about stupid things and this is completely Alfred's idea, you really shouldn't listen to…yes. Yes, we're ready."

Ekaterina giggled.

"Where is Alfred?" Ivan said with a smile. The sudden new voice made Matthew jump. What was Ivan made from? B-2 Material? He never knew where that kid was. He still wore that cream colored scarf, even if it was only 60 degrees. If sixty was too cold for Ivan, Matthew hated to see what was too hot.

"You know, that's a good question," Matthew said, biting his lip. What _other_ hare-brained scheme could his brother come up with on such short notice?

The door to the house opened—all eyes were on it. Was Alfred finally here so they could get going?

No. Instead, it was Arthur Charles David Kirkland III, the Williams' second cousin, thrice removed, still burdened with the cynicism of a forty year old man as ever, dressed with a sweater vest Bill Cosby would have looked at twice before wearing. Under his arm a tattered old, leather bound book that looked like it would eat anyone up, just like that one movie from before either of them were born. Under his other arm, an even more tattered Milton Bradley board game box.

"Yo! Artie!" Gilbert called. Arthur rolled his eyes. Gilbert could only bark a laugh, exposing his sharp incisors. Honestly, it was like he could cut through steel with the type of incisors he had. Maybe he was a vampire. That'd explain the hair and his eyes…nah. That's too ridiculous.

"Where's the youngest?"

"To hell if I know," Arthur grumbled, braces still giving him a difficult time to speak. The pain sent shockwaves through his body. "He's probably making a dangerous concoction that may or may not spell complete and utter disaster for the rest of you all and your everlasting souls."

"And you're directing the train," Gilbert said with a mock salute.

"Much to my chagrin," Arthur spat. He was just about to step from the doorway when the door crashed open, slamming against his face, sending the young Brit to the ground, somewhere near the Baltic Bros, and dropping his books in the process.

Alfred had always been one for spectacle, but this one pretty much took the cake. The youngest Williams, born only a mere unfortunate two minutes after his twin, was dressed in his midnight black suit from Uncle Randall's Alabama wedding three years ago (it was a bit tight in the torso and short in the leg), a black tie, black sunglasses and his best impression of Tom Cruise in Top Gun. He had a water gun and tape player in either hand, leaning against his shoulders. The music was already a minute or so into the song…

_"The good guys dressed in black, remember that/Just in case we ever face to face and make contact/The title held by me/means what you think you saw, you did not see."_

Alfred stopped the tape once it hit the chorus.

"Let's get jiggy wit it."

Sadiq laughed. He laughed so hard he fell off his chair and brought Herakles down with him.

Matthew hoped that one day, he would be able to look back on this and laugh. That he would laugh until his sides burst and tears rolled down his cheeks. Today was not that day. He sank away from Ekaterina, who could only stare at the American as she pondered how much her family really loved her. Perhaps it wasn't so much "love" as it was "dampened apathy" or "suppressed hatred."

"Are you completely daft?" Arthur roared, pulling himself off the ground, looking ready to slam his fist into Alfred's face. Arthur's chastising was only Miracle Grow to Alfred's grin. "Is _that_ what you were doing all this time? Putting on this obnoxious garb only to parade around this garage like you were some sort of emperor—"

"Cool it, Artie," Alfred said, voice smooth like some sort of butter and chocolate concoction. "I totally got this under control."

"You the man, Al!" Feliks said from the back of the garage, raising his fist in glee.

Alfred mirrored the action, "Power to the people!"

"You can't say that, Al!" Tino yelped.

"Why not?" Alfred retorted, one eyebrow raised. He would have crossed his arms, but the jacket was a bit tight.

"That's an African American thing," Tino chastised. "You can't just be doing the African American people thing."

"Yer sup'r white," Berwald said.

"I've got an eighth of Cherokee in me!" Alfred said, shrugging as much as he could, "Doesn't that count for anything anymore?"

"I'm going to kill myself," Matthew said to himself. Maybe he could disappear and float through the garage door.

"You were not even doing ze right movie," Francis said, with his Faux'ch accent. He made a motion with his wrist, as if to say, "now go away before I taunt you once again." "Ze correct movie you should have referenced was Ghostbusters. Honestly, I zought zat was at least _obvious_. You silly Americans…"

"Um…Francis, um…I hate to bust your bubble but, um…aren't you American too? Weren't you born in Brooklyn?" Antonio asked, arms full of a struggling Lovino.

"Zis does not matter," Francis said.

"All right guys quiet down, quiet down," Elizaveta said. The garage quieted and all eyes turned to her. "Lovi, how long do we have until your folks check up for Feliciano again?"

"About two hours from now," Lovino said, finally able to shrug Antonio off his neck. He shoved his fists into his jacket pockets.

"Let's just get this done and over with," Vash said, arms crossed, looking more perturbed than usual. He wore a thick hoodie that came to his knees. It wasn't a question of _if_ Vash Zwingli was packing; it was a question of _how_ he was packed. "If Eva has a nightmare or something and she comes looking for me and I'm not there—I'm gonna kill someone. I mean it."

"Do not be a simpleton, Vash," Arthur said, rubbing his face where the door had hit him. "This is a simple spell. If everything goes correctly, you all should be back in bed by—" he checked his watch, "—nine forty-five."

"Perfect. Let's do a quick roll call," Gilbert said, rubbing his hands together. "Baltic Bros and Feliks?"

"Here."

"Nordic Five?"

"Here."

"Mediterraneans?"

"Here and accounted for."

"Family's here. Gay Meister?"

"_Gilbert_," Elizaveta quipped, slapping him on the back of his head.

"Ow. God, Liza, whatcha do that for? New Kids?"

"Present!"

"Williams Twins?"

"The hero is in the house!"

"I'm gonna kill you, Al."

"Bookie?"

"I suppose that is me, the carrier of the Book. The Book carrier. The _Bookie_."

"Eliz is here, the Pastas are here. I'm here. Let's get this show on the road!"

It took another ten minutes for the Hetalia Boulevard children to get out of the garage, and into the street. Another four minutes for them to walk to the Tree Fort. If any of the children had been paying any attention to the important things, they would have realized the moon was the size of a beach ball, hung in the blue sky, beaming down on them with benevolent grinning light. The stars were plentiful, like a Higher Being had sprinkled the frosting sky with sugar bits. The summer air was cooler but still humid and the crickets provided evening music.

Dry leaves and dirt crunched under nineteen shoes. Nineteen, not twenty feet, because Feliciano had ended up on Ludwig's back, clinging to him like a sheet of Bounce on a polyester suit in the middle of September. He whimpered something about being hungry, which the rest of Hetalia Boulevard ignored. At exactly 9:04 PM, everyone was at the base of the Tree Fort, under the balcony that Sadiq and Herakles had built in the sixth grade. Alfred, who had changed from his Men in Black suit to normal clothes, started passing out Fruit Roll-Ups and Capri Sun pouches. Arthur set up his post a few yards away from the group.

Most of the children plopped around the tree. Gilbert clamored to the balcony, followed by Francis who wanted to "see Arthur's face when everything when bottom's up." Elizaveta and Roderich were nowhere to be seen, but at fourteen years old and only two weeks into their relationship, no one questioned their absence.

"Hey, Gil?" Alfred called, mouth full of the fruity Fruit Roll-Up.

"Yeah?" responded a nonchalant Gilbert.

"Where's Matt?"

"Dunno. Think he was in the back of the line."

"No, dude, I thought he was with you."

"Why would he be with me? He's _your _brother. God, kids today. I'd never lose my family members."

"You left me at 'It's a Small World' in Orlando," Ludwig poignantly reminded him.

"Shaddup, Lud. It was good fer you."

"Where is my sister?" Ivan tentatively asked. He made eye contact with Alfred and suddenly everything came together. They burst from the Fort in a hot second, calling out the names of their absent siblings.

Arthur paused in creating his rune and muttered something about horny and oblivious American children.

"—And when we were nine, we went up to Winnipeg in the summer. Mom's from Canada. She's like…three of four and 'the only one to escape.' Anyway, Uncle Riley lives in Winnipeg and he's got a pool and _every_thing—"

Matthew's voice squeaked. It wasn't so much the sound of a dogs committing mass suicide, but of a rubber duckie being stepped on. Ekaterina giggled.

The two had found themselves straggling considerably behind the rest of the neighborhood. Neither of them believed the ghost theory anyway, and decided to detour slightly and settle in the grass of public property. It hadn't been cut in decades, and was almost as tall as their waist. They lied on their back and simply watched the stars and the clouds sail on the not-midnight-for-a-couple-of-hours sea. Ekaterina's English was almost as good as his, and they'd been sharing stories of their suburban youths.

"I'm sorry," Matthew said, feeling his face turn a hot shade of Canadian red.

"Don't be," Ekaterina said.

"Do you…do you believe in ghosts, Katya?" Matthew asked.

"Um…not like Americans do. I believe that there is someplace you go after you die, but some spirits haven't been sorted yet. I believe those spirits aren't going to look for trouble, but they'll help you if you need it."

Ekaterina pulled something from under her shirt and gave it to him. The bright moonlight provided enough light for him to see—a pendant. A silver saint etched into a gold plait. Matthew couldn't make out the face or the name. On the pendant's back, cursive letters.

"Is this Russian?" Matthew asked, bringing the pendant closer to his eyes, trying to analyze it.

"Ukrainian," Ekaterina said. "My mother gave that to me before she died. I was…I was only a baby when it happened. I think Papa said right after I was born." She paused for a moment and looked at her hands. Matthew looked at the necklace and ran his thumb over the face tenderly. "She had been sick for a long time, they said. Cancer. Depression. I do not know."

She seemed so nonchalant. Her face was cool non-emotion in the silver moonlight. Matthew gave her the necklace back and she looked at it for a moment before replacing it around her neck.

"I have never had good luck, Matvey," she said. "I broke my arm last summer. My puppy was hit by a car. My step sister seems to hate me. My step mother ignores me and thinks Ivan is clumsy and _deyern_."

Matthew snickered. "_Deyern_?"

"Belarusian for foolish. I do not have the best of luck, but when I feel very sad, I feel like my Mama is watching over me. And then," she looked at the pendant face, "I feel better. Like she's actually there, in the room with me." Ekaterina turned to Matthew, Matthew turned to Ekaterina and his stomach fluttered. "Do you know what I mean?"

Matthew had to admit that he did not.

"So…you have the necklace. What's your brother's story? Why does he wear the scarf?" Matthew asked, genuinely curious.

"Oh!" Ekaterina exclaimed. Her already wide blue eyes only got wider and bluer. Matthew noticed…she was…she was crying?

"I'm sorry!" he said, suddenly feeling like an idiot for bringing up something so sensitive. Stupid, stupid, stupid now she'll never like you. Your voice might as well—"I didn't know it was such a big deal!"

—crack right now.

"It's…it's all right," Ekaterina said, bringing herself together, wiping away the tears away with the back of her wrist. "You didn't know. But…but…if _I_ have bad luck, then Ivan…Ivan hasn't seemed to have much of a break since…since before his mother…"

"You don't have to tell me, Katya…if you don't want to," Matthew said. He wondered if now was the time where he, the gentleman, would touch her arm in a comforting manner. She gave him a little smile and that made all the sweet symphonies of Shania Twain's "From This Moment" struck.

"What…what happened between you and your brother?" Ekaterina asked, finally bringing herself together.

Matthew felt his face flush, with acute anger rather than a childish crush this time. His stomach twisted as he remembered _1999_ and how much _fun _and _awesome_ it was.

"Just…just stuff," Matthew responded, dropping his gaze to the ground. He didn't want to bring this burden to Ekaterina's shoulders.

They just sat in silence, except for Ekaterina's occasional sniffles, looking into each other's eyes, glinting in the moonlight. It was a still shot from a movie, A Walk to Remember, probably, which Matthew had _not_ seen because he was a _guy_ and wouldn't see something like that and cry like a seven year old girl who'd just been told her puppy had been run over by an Army tank and the remains had been stepped on by Richard Nixon.

"_Ma—a—tthew!_"

"_Ka—a—tya!"_

"_Ma—a—tt!"_

That little scene, the little thing Matthew and Ekaterina had been building for the extended time of twenty minutes, shattered in an instant, like an apple cider bottle exploding on a ceramic tile floor, but without all the messy residue. Ekaterina and Matthew stood up and waved to their respective brothers. Alfred made a remark about not wondering too far from the group, because there were beasties and gang bangers who liked to hang out here and he could probably die or get raped or something and then he'd have to explain it to Mom and Dad. Matthew reminded him very swiftly that _he_ was the older and more mature between the two, and therefore should be more worried about _Alfred_. Alfred stuck out his tongue. Ivan gave his sister a stern warning, or well, it _seemed_ like a stern warning—with Russian, you could never be certain if either speaker were moments away from ripping each other's heads off or merely talking about the weather.

Alfred led the way back to the base of the Tree Fort. All those who were not involved with the incantation (read: everyone _but_ Arthur), sat around the base of the giant tree sharing their own ghost stories and what was left of the Fruit Roll-Ups and Capri Sun pouches.

Arthur was off to the side, drawing stick figures (Matthew could only guess) into the dirt. He was muttering something, but it sounded close enough to gibberish for Matthew to ignore it. He looked up to the tree balcony to see that Antonio had abandoned Lovino once again and joined Gilbert and Francis atop. Gilbert spoke with such animation that he looked like he was directing air traffic, and whatever he was saying was so funny that Francis almost fell off the balcony.

"Kattie! Kattie! Kattie! Like, where have you_ been_?" Feliks asked, rushing to Ekaterina's side, pulling her from her brother, who could only make a small, confused noise. Feliks dragged Ekaterina to his small troupe on the opposite side of Arthur's workplace, consisting of the Baltic Bros, Elizaveta and Roderich, and TinoBerwald. "We're telling hella scary stories, for real. You've got to have some scary Russian stories right? They won't be as good mine of course, but you can still try." Ekaterina hadn't said a word, but seemed not to mind her sudden change in company.

"Do you…feel weird?" Alfred asked Matthew. The youngest of the twins rubbed his arms, as if a bitter cold wind had descended upon them like some sort of ominous force from a Stephen King novel or not-quite-as-good-but-still-decent movie adaptations. Matthew shook his head and instead of prodding his brother about what he had ingested before they came down to the Fort, turned his attention to their second cousin (thrice removed), who stood up in the center of…well, whatever it was he'd drawn in the soil, and dusted himself off, looking quite pleased with the result.

"It's done!" Arthur called triumphantly. The neighborhood kids perked, some looking down over their shoulders; Matthew, Alfred, Ivan and Ekaterina rushed down the remaining seven yards of the hill to the…soil circle thing. They all stood on the outside looking in, as if Arthur were some animal on display at a zoo.

"So what did you do?" Jakob asked, eyes wide with wonder and curiosity.

"I've constructed a rune," Arthur said, as if _that_ explained anything. He snapped the Book closed and jumped out of the dirt drawings. "All I need to do now is recite the ancient words and call upon the spirit of Old Man Johnson to this area—" he pointed to the circle's circumference, "—and he will be trapped. Lord willing, we will have serenity and felicity back to Hetalia Boulevard and we can all continue with our summers as if no transgressions have occurred."

"Arthur. Small words, please," Alfred chastised, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Sounds like a plan, Little Man," Sadiq said with a nod. Herakles nodded in agreement and leaned back on the Tree's trunk, trying to catch some shut eye. G, as always, remained quiet on the subject at hand.

"Now you all will have to give me some room," Arthur said, waving his arms. "You all have probably felt the magical charge from the rune's creation. That will only increase as I call upon Old Man Johnson's spirit. I need absolute quiet during this incantation and you all _cannot under any circumstance_ alter the rune's design. If even the slightest mark is altered, the very fabric which separates us between the Spirit Realm will be torn. Who knows what sort of monstrosities will come from that hole. Nod for me if you all understand."

And the neighborhood children, even those who did not believe in the Spirit Realm or the realness of simple urban legends, nodded.

"Good," Arthur said. He turned his back to the larger group and began his incantations. The fact that he didn't need to look at the book for the words made Alfred very, _very_ nervous. How many times had he performed this spell? How many _general spells_ had Arthur conjured anyway? Why did he have the book in the first place?

Alfred stood on the far end of the crowd, he and his brother and Ivan being pushed to that side when the other children gathered around Arthur's…ground drawing. Ivan looked across the rune to where his sister was; she seemed relaxed and ok where she was, even smiling a few times when Feliks made an outlandish gesture.

Suddenly.

Ivan couldn't hear anything.

Not even the chirping of crickets.

It was like he'd been dropped in a soundproof room—or a basement locked under the house with the key going _ka-chinik_ in the lock and suddenly it was dark, very dark, too dark, scary dark. And he remembered things, didn't want to remember things, tried to keep them aside. He fumbled with the edges of his scarf but…but it wasn't enough. His chest ached. His heart raced. He had to get out of there _get out of there __Get out of there!_

Ivan ran to where he _thought_ his sister was.

Suddenly he was flying and then falling, falling, falling _SMACK _on the ground.

The veil had been lifted and Ivan could see again; he face down in the dirt, a few leaves poking his cheek. He still couldn't bring the air quick enough to his lungs. Just breathe. Just breathe. Just breathe. He could hear again…bit by bit by—

"Ivan! What the hell you stupid idiot git _motherfucking asshole you ruined everything_!"

* * *

**ac·ci·dent **āk'sĭ-dənt, -děnt'

An unexpected and undesirable event, especially one resulting in damage or harm: _car accidents on icy roads._

An unforeseen incident: _A series of happy accidents led to his promotion._

* * *

**Musibi's Fried Rice Corner**

So...hrmm...I guess I forgot to update this a few times, huh? u/u* ugh, I'm so sorry my followers. So, since it's been a while, and I just updated this on LJ. Here's a three chapter update and my sincerest apologies for taking so long and completely forgetting about this page. D:


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